Reach out, I'll be there
by SheyRicci
Summary: Hello, Bravo? Can your linguistic sniper come out to play?
1. Chapter 1

Eric swung his leg over the bench, took a seat across from Jason on the picnic style table in the cafeteria, slapped a very thin manila folder in front of his team's Master Chief.

Jason flicked a glance at it, stabbed a meatball, reached for his water. He knew what it contained, a single sheet of paper, knew what it meant. "Who didn't pass what test?"

"Physical."

"Sonny?" Jason guessed. Uninterested, he shook parmesan cheese over his spaghetti. "How much weight he have to lose this time?" He picked up his glass of water, took a drink.

"Spenser."

Jason choked, spit water, thumped his chest with a fist to swallow rather than spit, Eric waited patiently.

"Say what?" He managed, teary-eyed from his recent choking fit. "No way." Could never eat a meal in peace in a mess tent. Why did he even try? "Clay? Carry a few extra pounds?" He snorted. "Pfft."

Eric tapped the file with a finger. "He's 12 pounds under acceptable minimum weight by Navy standards."

Jason went weak with relief. No big deal. Kid worked out too much, trained too hard, ran too far too often. Easily remedied.

"So, two pounds?" Because he knew Doc wouldn't fuss if it had been under ten. "He grounded?"

"He's been ordered home." Eric stated, braced for hurricane Hayes.

Jason merely raised an eyebrow. Nothing surprised him about Clay anymore. "Sending him back with Charlie?" Bravo had landed that morning to relieve Charlie, who was due to fly home tomorrow while Bravo completed a mission here, before flying out to Malaysia. He wasn't happy about the diversion either.

Eric chewed his lip, combed his beard, a bit thrown Jason was so calm, sighed. "Doc will go with him."

Jason nodded. "Roger that."

Eric couldn't hide his surprise, didn't really try. Jason grinned. Yeah, he bet his Commander expected him to throw a fit.

Jason offered Eric his garlic knot. "Charlie's been on ground for a month, all we have is an over-night hike to escort a rogue assets family out of their village, violence not expected." He scowled. "Still don't know why Charlie couldn't stay until the west coast team arrives, why we had to divert here, but whatever." Now he paused, frowned. "We're in Malaysia for however long while yet another team finishes here." He needed to worry about and focus on what he had control of, not what he didn't. "We gonna get him back? He gonna join us?"

Eric took the bread, put his hands up in defeat. "Doc called a nutritionist, they'll come up with a diet plan, help him gain weight."

Now Jason scowled, puffed up. His men were no mamby-pamby wusses. They didn't require help….

"Healthily." Eric added before Jason could go off.

"He's in top shape Blackburn." Jason pointed out with a childish pout. "Why make him go home?"

"Muscle mass?" Now Eric scoffed. "Navy has rules for a reason Jason. I blew smoke up asses to bring him with us, not going to work a second time." He glared pointedly. "Doc had to follow the rules, Clay suffered an injury and as a result, he's underweight, yeah, he's side-lined."

Jason stabbed another meat ball. "Bah," he waved his speared meatball around. "Twelve pounds. Protein shakes, he'll be fine." He glowered. "And it wasn't an injury, someone hurt him and it's not why he's 12 pounds underweight. He trains too hard."

"Jason!" Eric warned sternly. "Doc says soon as he gains half the weight, he can join you." He sighed in defeat. "Won't be hard for him to do in two weeks. Shoulder should be better by then as well." He reached for a cup of marinara sauce. "Deal?"

Jason nodded. "Deal."

But he didn't like it.

***000***

Jason, in search of his entire missing team, finally zeroed in on their location by following the yelling, cursing, barking. He had left the gym, showered and was ready to go to bed, skype with the kids, but when he'd popped his head into their quarters, he'd been surprised to find no one. Not Even Ray. He'd searched their barracks; rec room, gym, pool, showers, basketball court - no one.

He finally tracked them down in the ammo/supply shack, stood in the doorway, stared in amazement, confusion, amusement, a bit of anger.

Sonny was complaining – nothing new.  
Trent was arguing – not normal.  
Brock was packing or unpacking, Jason couldn't tell – odd.  
Ray was trying to; talk Sonny down, get between Trent and whosever face he was in, stop Brock from packing or unpacking, shush the dog - normal.  
Clay sat on a table, swinging his legs as he observed, munching an apple - huh.

Jason opened his mouth to whistle, ducked when a packet of something came flying…didn't move fast enough, bent over to pick it up from where it landed after striking his forehead.

Clay smirked, waved, took another bite of apple.

The hell?

Jason fumed, fingered the pocket-packet, straightened up….oh…Ooooh….oh. Oh-oh. Aleve.

"…..the hell….? Don't even….Not taking that!" Sonny was yakking, hands waving at the pallets of bottled Gatorade. Jason stole a peek….oh, not good….every bottle he could see through the packaging was red.

Clay smirked, he liked red Gatorade, it was his favorite and he had no problems drinking it. Yeah, yeah, a time or two, he'd managed to upchuck after drinking it, once all over Sonny, but he'd either been sick or hurt. Hey, here's a thought, don't hang me upside down.

"…..you don't pack what you think I need. I don't care what is required or allowed, all you need to do is pack what I request." Trent was throwing things out of a bag willy-nilly…left, right, forward, sideways, over his shoulder.

Clay took another bite of apple. Well, Trent had a point, Clay couldn't take Naproxen without suffering cramps in his calves. And wasn't that just a topic for teasing him!

"….this is….this isn't…..is this _Alpo_?" Brock was horrified. "Who feeds their dog Alpo these days?"

"…we don't use 10 round clips. What is that? That isn't the ammo I ordered." Sonny lunged towards another stacked pallet. "The hell is this?"

"….I don't care what is and isn't an approved, authorized item. My list was signed off by a doctor. I expect everything on it to be HERE!"

Clay rolled his eyes. Geesch. Once – ONCE – he'd made a comment while drugged up in a hospital about a thermometer!

"…..no boots, no goggles, no ear protection…..what? Four legs don't deserve comfort?"

"What the hell are these? I can't wear this brand! Do you see where the eyelets are? These are cheap knockoffs. I don't want these!"

A young man in camo's stood stoically with a clipboard. "Supplies aren't easily obtained here."

"Davis never has a problem."

"You have three days dipshit."

"Wait, Davis isn't going to Malaysia? Is that what you said? We have him?"

The arguing went on, Jason remained unnoticed. He crossed his arms over his chest and rested a shoulder against the door frame, waiting to see how long it would take Ray to gain control.

"What the fuck?" Jason finally asked Clay. "Put peanut butter on that."

"Meet Stewie." Clay grinned.

"Uh," Jason paused as Ray attempted to talk Sonny out of wringing Stewie's neck by explaining the boots didn't matter because they weren't climbing Mt. Everest. "What's'a Stewie?"

Aah, so they were packing for Malaysia. Davis had ordered their supplies and overseen the loading of the plane to fly to this island somewhere in the India ocean, but she was returning to the states with Clay and Doc...so...this must be her replacement.

Clay chucked his apple core into a trash can across the room, pushed off the table with his right palm, left arm in a sling, easily landed on his feet.

"Stewie's packing the gear for the trip to Malaysia." Clay informed his boss. "Cause Davis isn't going with you."

"Neither are you." Jason stated. So what did it matter what color Gatorade they took? Or what pain reliever was packed? "You're shipping stateside."

"Gonna be a shit-show, we ever lose Davis." Clay clapped Jason on the shoulder, walked past him. "I'll see you off in the morning, join you in two weeks."

"Eggs and yogurt for breakfast. No fat-free shit either!" Jason called after him. "Only a three-mile run, you hear? I find out you ran five, I'll kick your ass!"

"Jay!" Ray exclaimed. "Little help here."

"Boss!"

"Jason!"

"Davis is going stateside with Clay? That's what I heard. That right?"

"This…this….he….him…"

Jason sighed, moved on into the room, calling home would be delayed a bit longer.

***_the next morning_***

"Commander Blackburn."

Enjoying a fruit cup of berries and cut melons, Eric didn't look up. He'd been pulled into a meeting once the west coast team – before breakfast, mind you – had arrived and he was still steamed about both the time of the meeting and the reason for it. He wasn't about to give an inch.

"Where's your team?"

Eric flipped a page, started reading, made notes in the margin of the report that had his attention, didn't look up. These two knew exactly where Bravo was – up and out before dawn running, what in his and Jason's opinions, a useless mission.

The two men from the west coast team known as Five exchanged a glance, then simply sat down. They weren't about to be ignored simply because they were addressing Bravo's Lieutenant Commander Eric Blackburn.

"What the hell is that?"

Eric raised an eyebrow, still didn't look up, munched on a strawberry. "Out east, we call it a dog."

Oh, right, yeah, Bravo team had a dog they claimed as a teammate. Pathetic.

"Military canine. In the mess tent?"

Cerberus raised his head, yawned, licked his chops, glared.

"It has an attitude."

"Not your business." Eric murmured. Apparently, a show of indifference wasn't going to make these two assholes go away.

"Not very friendly, is it?"

"Takes after its team."

Eric ignored them.

A throat was cleared. "I'm Chief Rally, this is Senior Chief Williams."

"Go away." He gave Cerberus a small bit of cheese. "You're not going to get what you're looking for."

"That should be…..didn't your Commander tell you…we're here to discuss our mission."

"There's nothing to discuss." Eric put his pencil down, scratched Cerb's ears. "Your request for Spenser was denied. Move on."

"Who denied it?" Rally asked after a moment. He knew the outcome of the meeting, he'd been in it, but he had asked for a higher command to review his request. If the denial had come down, it had gone to Five's Lt. Commander who hadn't yet notified Rally.

"I did."

Rally and Williams exchanged a look, remained seated. They hadn't been aware Blackburn had the authority to make the decision to refuse the request.

"Who did you notify?" Rally asked.

It was obvious the men weren't going to leave so Eric gathered his papers, put them in the file.

"Bravo's out in the field, Spenser is here…" Rally ignored Eric's snide 'how'd you know that' comment. "on base…..it is alleged, rumored, that his language skills….."

For the love of all that was good, he was not doing this again. Confident that McCall had his back, Eric gathered his bowl of fruit, glass of milk, file folder and phone, stood up, cut Rally off.

"I'm not doing this again. I'm done going through this with everyone who thinks they can snap their fingers, demand Spenser and expect to get him. One more time….Spenser is not for hire or rent, we don't 'loan' him out." He scowled. "No other team has to go through this shit." He gave Cerberus a pet, the dog stood, stretched, bared his teeth at Rally. "There is nothing you or your boss or anyone higher can say or do that will make me give him to you or anyone else."

"That's not your decision to make."

A lip curled. "Yes, yes it is."

"He's not injured all that badly, is he? Sore shoulder from a training mishap?"

Clay had wrenched his shoulder the day before they'd flown out during a training exercise with Delta when that team had 'not deliberately' dropped the kid from the scaling wall on the obstacle course. The irony? The competition was to help build trust between the teams.

Oh yeah, that had worked well. Yeah, sure upper brass, ground the kid _now_ from active duty due to being less than acceptable weight, but make him run an obstacle course with a team known not to get along with Bravo. Thumbs up, D.C. assholes, way to go! Woot!

Eric had been forced down to the course with Delta's Lt. Commander and other personnel to break up the fist fight that had erupted. Because, oh, rest assured, Bravo had been right there, hadn't let Spenser out of their sight. Though, fat lot of good it had done.

Clay's arm was in a sling, would be for another week – Trent had talked about stretched muscles or tendons or ligaments, hell, something Eric hadn't paid much attention to – and he was on ibuprofen, ice and rest. But Clay had wanted to come and Bravo had wanted to bring him, so magic-wand-waving Eric obtained medical clearance from Navy docs for Clay to fly out on Bravo's mission as long as he remained in command with Blackburn. His ease and skill with languages and his tactical mind were welcome and useful and to remain home due to a mere shoulder strain, seemed ridiculous.

Oh, the shit he put up with and went through for Hayes and his team.

But then came the failed physical. That, on top of the minor injury had resulted in his medical clearance being revoked and orders to return home to seek 'proper medical care'. Pffft. Like, physicals here, on an Army base, had to be done right now.

This morning, after Bravo had left for their mission, Clay had come down with a fever – which, had Doc not been there, Eric might have doubted – and Eric hadn't been able to make himself force Clay onto the plane that was flying Charlie home, which meant Doc and Davis hadn't gone either.

So, how the hell did Rally know Clay had hurt his shoulder? How did he know Clay was still on base? How the hell did he know Clay hadn't left with Charlie? Did he know Clay was supposed to? And did he know the reason why Clay hadn't? Did he know about the flunked physical? Eric didn't think so, because Rally had yet to bring any of it up.

"Cleared for light duty, right? You brought him with you, he's here, so, yeah, he is." Rally continued when Eric didn't give him an answer. "All we want him to do is translate for us."

"No." Because there was no 'just' when Clay Spenser was involved.

"He's not cleared to fly to Malaysia," Rally continued. "But he can remain here with us, run ops from command, like he's doing now."

Eric walked away, Cerberus on his heels. When he found out – and he would – how the west coast team knew who Spenser was, that he hadn't accompanied Bravo, hadn't left with Charlie and was on base with Eric, heads were gonna roll and asses were gonna be transferred.

How the hell did Rally know Clay wasn't cleared to fly to Malaysia? And why didn't he know Clay had been ordered home? Huh. His first thought was the new guy, Stewie, but no, couldn't be him running his mouth...he didn't even know half what Rally did.

There was more to this than just 'borrowing' Clay for translating duties and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

Rally thought about following, but when he and Williams had attempted to enter Bravo's barracks earlier, they'd found the entire area that housed Bravo fenced off and no one, not even with clearances and security passes, was granted admittance without the 'proper credentials' – which evidently, they lacked.

"What do you think? Go over Blackburn's head?" Williams asked.

"Tried that." Rally sighed. "McCall shot us down."

"Then Harrington?"

"Working on it."

Rally had never met anyone on Bravo before, but their reputation was well known, even by the west coast platoons. The entire damn team was elusive, preferred the company of each other, remained secluded, had the best success rate and completed missions record of any Navy SEAL team – ever.

Rally's team would take over corralling the asset, who hopefully responded to the threat his family was held under 'American arrest" – should Bravo manage to accomplish their mission – and came in. In fact, they'd landed and learned they could stalk and potentially grab a known associate of the asset while Bravo was out bringing in the man's family and their job would be so much easier if they could have Spenser accompany them.

Rally didn't trust local interpreters.

This was the first time Rally had been able to approach Blackburn. No matter what he had tried, he hadn't been able to gain access to the secured, secluded area on the base that housed Bravo and talk to Spenser. The MP's stationed at the gate turned him away every time. While his security clearance was acknowledged and accepted, when he couldn't produce the 'proper credentials' needed to get beyond the gate, he'd politely but firmly, been denied entrance. Not even his Lieutenant Commander had been able to gain them entrance despite how many phone calls he made.

Rally and his men didn't have private quarters and they wouldn't inhabit those that Bravo currently occupied when the east coast team left. And he'd found out when his team had landed, that Bravo traveled with a full 15-member support team, doctor, their lieutenant commander and most times, his immediate superior. That all just made his blood boil.

So, he'd set his men on finding gossip and rumors.

Bravo stuck together.  
They retrieved their own.  
They preferred to work alone, relied on few outsiders, depended on their support team as often as possible for back-up, exfil, clean-up. Hell, even QRF.  
Their support team came complete with; pilot, co-pilot, driver, mechanic, medic, gunner; ammunition and explosives experts and a technology guru.  
Bravo mingled with other soldiers and military personnel on the base, but no one really knew anything about them.  
Bravo had free run of the base, access to transportation and did whatever they wanted to. Such as bring a dog to the mess tent.  
Bravo was spotted on the shooting range, in the gym, at the pool, in the rec center, at the bar. Would play sports.  
Bravo was not confined to quarters, barracks or base.  
They requested private quarters.  
They rejected admittance to their domain.  
Yes, their support team, their commander and assorted personnel had quarters within the secured area.  
Bravo didn't play well with others,  
Hayes was protective and defensive of his entire team, mess with one of them, he'd come after you, your career was over.

And that annoyed Rally. Hell, it pissed him off. And to top it off, he was denied not only access to Spenser, but permission for him to accompany them on their seek and detain mission as well. Hell, it wasn't like he was asking to take the sniper into combat!

They weren't hiking into the hills or repelling out of choppers or scaling mountains, for Christ sake. They were going to a village to find and talk to one man. They'd be back before Bravo returned. Rally wanted his language skills, could care less about his alleged shooting precision. He didn't expect resistance, let alone violence.

"Top-rated SEAL team the Navy has and they're a bunch of dicks." Williams commented. "Let's go meet this interpreter."

Rally was quiet, he didn't trust local interpreters who were found on the street and paid for their services. He wanted Spenser, and now, he intended to obtain him just to piss off Blackburn. The man with his oh-so-cock-sure-swagger and attitude was convinced the matter was over. Well, he'd just see about that. Five also had a Lieutenant Commander and a Commander and while neither man was with Five, modern technology would put them all in the same room together.

He called his Commander, requested – demanded – a meeting with Spenser, Blackburn and McCall. He got his meeting, but it didn't go as he expected. Spenser didn't even attend.

Their renewed request for Spenser was flatly and promptly denied. Their stated reasons and explanation, while acknowledged, did not sway anyone's opinion and within five minutes, the meeting was over.

McCall had sat doodling while Blackburn held the meeting and shot down every reason why Five should be allowed to acquire the services of Bravo's linguistic sniper.

"So, tell me Blackburn." McCall finally looked up, clicked his pen. "They state a very valid reason to take Spenser with them, if they had the time and pushed this up the chain, they'd get him."

"They'd get _approval_." Blackburn corrected. "But when it came time to leave, Spenser wouldn't be around. Or found. Or located."

"So, this is about Hayes having a pissing match."

"It's about anyone and everyone who thinks just because they want and request Spenser, they should get him." Blackburn shot back. "That expectation is bullshit and I'm done with it." He paused, added. "Sir," but McCall waved him on. "Spenser isn't even supposed to be here. We had orders to put him on the plane and return him to Virginia. Bravo doesn't even know I didn't do that, how the hell does Five?"

"And you're against it because?" McCall ignored that last question because he didn't have an answer, but dammit, he would find out. "You can over-ride Hayes any time, for any reason, about any issue."

_Because Jason would throw a fucking fit and he trusts me to abide by his wishes – whether I agree or not – when it comes to 'loaning' out Bravo's youngest. Because Jason left the kid with me and I'm not going to let him down._

"Sir, Bravo is the top-rated SEAL team for a reason. Leadership, loyalty, respect, commitment, it's what makes them so damn good." He paused for effect. "They back up one another and you know there is no force or authority on this earth that will prevent them from going after one of their own when they, uh, misplace him."

"Is that what we're calling it?" McCall cracked a rare grin, rose to his feet. Oh, Blackburn might not name names, but McCall had not problems doing so. "Spenser plays no part in that, eh?"

Bravo had gone rogue more than once to retrieve their rookie. Oh yes, Spenser was often the reason Bravo misplaced him, but not always. Sometimes, stupid shit just happened or the kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time or attracted the notice of someone while doing nothing more than enjoying a drink.

McCall finished his coffee, hid his smile, set the empty cup on the table. This team was making his career. Bravo's mission, their focus, their job, their country came first, but once that was over…..there was no stopping their dedication when it came time to find whoever had been lost. And nine and half times out of ten, that lost team member was Clay Spenser.

McCall prayed nightly that there was never a time when they were forced to choose….it would tear them apart emotionally and mentally, leave them fragmented. So far, they'd been lucky – haha, yeah, lucky – in that they'd always been able to successfully finish their job, complete their mission and then successfully find their missing team member, whoever he may be.

And thank you Lord – yes, another prayer – the times that Spenser was lost, misplaced or missing were becoming less frequent and he was more easily and quickly found. Modern tracking abilities truly were great.

Blackburn ducked his head with a rueful grin. "True, he does have a strong tendency to disobey orders and take matters into his own hands, but sir, there are other times, he's just standing there, we blink and he's gone."

Had that come from Hayes or Quinn, McCall would doubt the sincerity in those words, but Blackburn?

"Unlike you, I don't know these men on a personal level, sometimes, I don't believe you should either, but somehow, someway, for some reason, it works." He stood. "I will shoot down any further requests or inquisitions that might come from above regarding Spenser."

"Thank you, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

Howdy all! Have no fear...I never stray far or for long from my favorite subject...

* * *

Eric cupped his chin in his hand, elbow on his knee, watched Clay sleep, reluctant to wake him up.

What a fucked day this had been and it wasn't even 2 o'clock.

Five hadn't given up easily and Blackburn just didn't understand their dogged pursuit of one man. He and McCall figured Rally was top shit on the west coast, was used to getting his way, didn't like being denied, always got what he wanted. Well asshole, welcome to the east coast way of doing things – you're not getting Clay Spenser. So, suck it.

Childish yes, but Eric felt backed into a corner, he was being taunted and he didn't know what he was fighting against.

McCall was still dealing with phone calls and emails and conference meetings, but so far, no order had come down telling him or Blackburn, they had to release Clay to team Five. Doc had been called in for one meeting where he reported the reason Spenser hadn't returned stateside with Charlie was due to an illness consisting of: headache, slight fever, chills, nausea, a spinning sensation, loss of balance and discomfort in his shoulder.

Five had finally left for their 'locate, talk and take into custody' mission with a local interpreter but Eric didn't believe for one minute it was the end of their dogged pursuit of Spenser. No, he, McCall and Doc believed that Five was in the process of gaining approval to keep Spenser on the ground _here_ to interpret while Bravo flew on to Malaysia...Rally had told him as much when he'd confronted Eric over his late breakfast.

They just hoped that was all Five was after.

Eric had reason to worry because McCall had just called and confirmed his fears. Five now knew - they seemed to know everything - Clay was grounded due to a weight issue, had been ordered home and hadn't gone – how, Eric didn't yet know, but oh, he would find out – and they were arguing Clay could remain right here with them until he was medically cleared to join his team. They'd even agreed to allow Doc to remain with them. It was the why Eric wanted to know; why they wanted Spenser so badly they'd take their request to an Admiral in the Pentagon.

McCall and Harrington were busy indeed. Blackburn had the sickening feeling they were fighting for the very team he called Bravo, he just didn't know why, though if he had to hazard a guess, he'd say Five was after Spenser, wanted him on their own team.

Clay stirred, but didn't awaken. Doc had drawn blood, was waiting on lab results, but despite exaggerating the kid's illness in the meeting via conference call with upper brass and Five, he didn't think Clay suffered from anything more serious than a common cold. Maybe the flu, doubtful though.

"Spenser." Eric sighed, recalled a conversation – no idea why, just out of the blue. Maybe because he spent quite a bit of time, sitting next to Clay's bed – he'd had with the kid oh so long ago.

_"Kid, trust me," Eric offered Clay a cup of ice. "If Jason didn't like you, you wouldn't be on this team."_

_"Don't much seem like he does." Not after the bawling out he'd just sat through. Jason had ranted and raved and postulated and threatened and punched the wall before slamming out the door. And doors on a hospital room with self-closing hinges, didn't slam. But somehow, for Master Chief Hayes, they did._

_"You get under his skin."_

_Clay looked away, stared out the hospital window._

_Eric could see the kid wasn't convinced, tried again. "You can take food off his plate and you aren't slapped or stabbed. He allows you to do what you want, even knowing shit will hit the fan and he'll have to go get you. Davis stocks the beer you like, he signs orders for Trent to obtain medical supplies not normally issued to field medics."_

_"That's being the boss." Clay huffed impatiently. "Everything I say or do, makes him mad."_

_"You've been running with them for what, four months?" Eric paused. "I let you go on the mission with Delta because I wanted you to see what makes Bravo so different, not because anyone has any intentions of requesting you be transferred off the team. I wanted you to see what makes a team, the best."_

_"Planning, strategy, tactical..." Clay recited like he was reading from a manual._

_"Compassion, trust, respect, loyalty. Knowing your teams' strengths, their weaknesses. Knowing your men on a personal level is not a crime." Eric raised a hand when Clay raised his head from the pillow in protest. "Have you ever noticed how well Jason knows his men?"_

_"Ya mean, he punched the wall instead of my head 'cause he guessed I wouldn't like it?" Clay spit bitterly, a rare moment where he shared how he felt with anyone. "All I do, is piss him off."_

_"What was the first thing he did, when he got you back this morning?"_

_"Yelled."_

_"You sure about that? He's not afraid to show and give affection, Clay. He gives praise as often as he does reprimands and punishments._ _Kid, he's not pissed at you. And it's not anger." Seeing Clay's uneasiness, he attributed it to discomfort from pain, not plain speaking, rang the bell, spoke to the medic who appeared in the doorway. "It's fear Spenser. You scare the crap out of him."_

_Jason Hayes? Affectionate? HA!_

_"He went after you. You know Delta's in for one hell of a fight, right?" Eric waited. "You were hurt on their watch, Bravo won't forgive that."_

_Clay sat up, took the ice pack the medic brought in, balanced it on his knee, had nothing to say. Because now that he thought about it, thought back, once Jason had been able to get his hands on him after the chopper medic had released him, Bravo's chief __had tangled a hand in Clay's hair, pulled him close, hugged him. It wasn't until Sonny had held Clay still while Trent – 'cause apparently, the chopper medic wasn't qualified to do so – announced Clay still possessed two arms, two legs, all hands and feet, deemed him fit and fine, that Jason had erupted into a verbal beratement._

_"You don't bat an eye before running into danger." Eric was saying, pulling Clay's attention back to the present. "You don't hesitate to disobey orders when your actions can save the life of your teammate. You have no fear in combat. Hell, you have no fear at all. You show no doubt in your abilities. You're one confident son-of-a-bitch, you know that? You're slow to trust, but once your trust is gained, your loyalty knows no bounds. But god-dammit Clay, they let you out of their sight and they don't know if they're ever going to see you again."_

_"I don't…." Clay began. Christ, it sounded like his Lt. Commander was reading a prepared speech!_

_"Haven't you noticed by now other teams don't operate like Bravo does? How many times do you see Delta or Charlie out at the bar together? Hear locker room jive about bbq's and picnics?"_

_Clay was quiet, head averted. "That's all Ray."_

_"Bravo is friendship. They're more than a team. I've watched Jason build this team. I've transferred men out, Jason has kicked men off..." Eric decided to change tactics. "Adam liked you, you know that, right?" He pulled a flask, laced his coffee. He didn't give a rat's ass he was in the hospital on a base somewhere. He didn't offer any to Clay, who, by order of Trent, wasn't allowed to have alcohol until further notice. "He thought you were what Bravo needed. We were up all night discussing how to get you on it." He grinned. "Gotta love Ray."_

_"What they needed?"_

_"Nate...well, there were issues, his death was hard. Then...there was you. Young, stubborn, arrogant, cocky, you needed guidance and a firm hand and they needed someone to focus on and care about to get over their rough patch." Eric rubbed his chin. "Your file…..we watched you all through Green Team."_

_"I was an..." He swallowed, licked his lip. "experiment?"_

_Eric nodded. "Brock was impressed with your ease with languages. Ray had never seen such skill in a sniper...your accuracy and ability to calculate math in your head. Sonny was determined to top our endurance. No matter how many times you ran hills, Adam never ran you into the ground - not even with weight on your back."_

_Clay stared._

_"Trent loves a challenge." Eric tilted his head in thought. "You ever need him, you reach out, he'll be there."_

_"Trent?" Clay snorted. "He's always annoyed with me."_

_"Not annoyed, frustrated." Eric corrected. "Because you're sick or in pain and he can't immediately make you feel better like he can with the others. You're a medical enigma Clay Spenser, and he loves it." He paused. "Though, your unexpected reactions to some medications threw Trent's perfect chaos into complete and utter chaos." He brightened. "But you willingly signed the medical release form, allowing Doc to have the final say, so, here we are."_

_Clay swallowed. Eric was right, Trent had never turned away from him. "And Bravo One?"_

_Eric grinned. "You drive him nuts, frustrate the hell outta him."_

_"I dunno, I feel like I'm always, uh, bothering them."_

_"You are." Eric grinned. "Trust me, you're not going anywhere." _

Or was he? Could Five get Spenser? Did they have the clout to actually force a transfer if that was their goal? They hadn't said that was what they were after, but once he'd brought the idea up to McCall and he hadn't disagreed, Eric couldn't shake the feeling of doom and gloom no matter what he tried.

Clay wouldn't want a transfer, would fight it, as would Jason and Eric and McCall and Harrington, but…Eric shook his head, no buts. The kid was theirs and he would remain so. Period. End of story. Game over.

Eh, he currently had bigger problems.

Bravo had missed their last three check-ins.  
Command wasn't able to raise them on comm's.  
There was no 'eye in the sky'.  
Support had flown out that morning with Charlie, would later join Alpha.  
They weren't 'officially' in this country, so asking the local military for assistance was not an option.  
He'd been ordered to send Five after his team. They'd been called back –would gear up and head out, but it was an estimated departure of one to three hours from when they returned.  
Eric didn't like that option. He had another one and no one needed to know about it – Bravo's secluded and restricted barracks made it so.  
The man in front of him, could leave immediately and arrive at Bravo's last known location within an hour.

"Spenser?" Eric called softly. "Hey, need you with me."

He and McCall had discussed it. The ruse would need Stewie, Doc and Davis to pull it off, but he would rather send Spenser on foot with a bum shoulder then rely on Five, who with an eight-member squad, wouldn't be able to move as fast as one man. Especially this man who loved to run, was athletic, able to leap, jump, climb and trained to carry weight on his back.

Eric was going to catch hell for his. Spenser was not cleared for active duty, had been allowed to accompany his team as long as he remained in command, was supposed to be on his way home, ordered to take med leave for two weeks.

The flight over had been rough on Clay, who, for whatever reason, had come down with a headache and nausea so bad, he'd sought out Trent for relief. Sonny had vowed death to Delta – nothing new – and Jason had ordered him to his hammock for the duration of the flight. He hadn't felt much better after they'd landed and when he wasn't in command with Blackburn, he was laying down. His symptoms had flared up again this morning. All the reasons why Eric hadn't forced Clay onto another plane to fly home.

All the reasons Five had been told they couldn't have Clay for their mission. Oh, Eric was going to send Clay after Bravo, but far as Five and anyone else would know, Spenser had never left Bravo's barracks.

Clay stirred, content to remain asleep, comfortable in bed with pillows and blankets, no one around to bother him. Waking up meant facing duties and obligations and he wasn't quite ready to face any of that just yet. His head rolled, but he didn't waken.

"Damn kid, I hate to do this to you. You've earned the rest, this time to heal, but I'm sorry, it's not gonna happen."

_Time to go? We flying home already? Guys are back? I slept that long? _

"I know, you're sore and your shoulder hurts, but…."

_Not hurt, sore though, yeah._

_"_And you've come down with something or another_..."_

_Good grief, a cold! It's a cold! I have a COLD!_

"This isn't a hostile country…."

_Duh, I know that._

"But we can't be found here."

_We're not 'here', so what's the problem?_

"I've explored all my options."

_Then go away._

"And you're it."

_Don't wanna play tag._

Oh, this shit show was going to come bite him in the ass. Blackburn refused to allow Clay to go with Five just to sit and interpret but was willing to send him after Bravo. No way would Five just let that go. Way to go Eric, you ass, just hand the kid to them on a serving platter.

"Wake up Clay, we have to go get Bravo." Eric said gravely, ran a hand over his face. When he looked up, he was the focus of a blue-eyed steely stare. "Hey."

Since when did Bravo's Lieutenant Commander call him by his first name?

***000***

"Take a break," Ray told Jason. "Five minutes Jay. Just still down, you're wearing me out."

"They're doing exactly what we are." Jason continued to pace. "Waiting for reinforcements." Three missed check-ins guaranteed Blackburn would send someone after them.

"Race who gets them first." Trent added. "What we need," he pointed out the window. "Is a sniper up high."

"And how do you suggest I get there?" Ray snapped.

"Did I say you?" Trent snapped right back. "You don't even have a sniper rifle with you, can't make the shot from this distance with what you have." He sneered, held Ray's gaze. "Right?"

"So, you meant Spenser?"

Trent shrugged, turned away. "I like our chances when the kid is high."

"Enough!" Jason warned. "None of us could make the shot from here with the weapons we have."

Ray sighed, moved to where he could see out the window but not be seen. He wasn't angry at Trent, but yes, he was pissed at the situation. With Clay on stand-down mandatory medical leave, they'd been allowed to bring him with them but forced to leave him in command with Blackburn, then after the failed physical, they'd been forced to send him home. He wanted to, and did, blame Delta for this entire fucked-up situation, but in reality, even if Spenser was with them, they'd still be sitting here with their thumbs up their asses.

Or maybe not...Clay probably would have had his sniper rifle with him. He used the same slogan as Amex - 'don't leave home without it'.

They couldn't prove the prick from Delta had dropped Clay on purpose. He'd like to think and believe no fellow SEAL would stoop to such low tricks, but it rankled that there was a chance, however slim, that there was one such SEAL.

Delta's Chief and 2IC had been stunned and apologetic and genuinely concerned. They might not like Jason and held little affection for Bravo, but they were aghast that Bravo believed Jacobs had intentionally dropped Clay off the wall.

What stuck up his craw the most was, Clay was perfectly capable of climbing and scaling the wall on his own, but it had been a 'trust training mission', so he'd let go of the rope and allowed those atop the wall to pull him up – and he'd been dropped.

Bravo had always told the kid; reach out, we're here, we'll always take your hand, have your back, all you have to do is trust.

Yeah, sure, fat lot of good that had done. Bravo hadn't been the team on top of the wall, hadn't been the team extending a hand. No, they'd been the team, heart in their mouths, watching from below as their teammate plummeted towards the ground.

Ray rubbed his hair, shoved down the gut-wrenching fear it had been on purpose, payback for when Clay had been hurt while on a mission with Delta – had landed in the hospital with only Blackburn able to be with him – and the team had been assigned punishment.

Luckily, Clay – who was as nimble and agile as a monkey – had been able to grab the rope and stop his backwards crash to the hard ground some 12, or was it 16, feet below. But the rope had been some distance away, and Clay had had to scramble for finger and toe holds on the wall then lunge, his entire weight hanging from his hand on the rope, swinging, banging against the wall until Brock - Bravo's expert rock climber - could lower down and over on his own rope, grab the kid and lower him safely to the ground…Christ! If the kid had landed on his back…Ray swallowed, tried again to shake it off.

Jason and Trent had been beside him within seconds, held him down even though he'd insisted he was fine – winded and disoriented, but fine. The training exercise had ended with a brawl finally broken up by Blackburn and whoever he'd brought with him with, Clay taken to the hospital for x-rays.

Yeah, Ray didn't see Delta and Bravo becoming closer, able to work together, no matter how many trust-building missions the brass came up with. Not after that fiasco so soon after the fucked up mission where they'd brought Spenser back hurt. And it didn't matter all of Bravo knew Spenser was a trouble/danger magnet…you didn't land another team's sniper in the hospital when he ran an op with you or drop that same man off a wall a month or so later.

He stared out the window. Even if Clay hadn't hurt his shoulder during that fucked-up, entirely un-needed training session, he wouldn't be here. Nope, not on stand-down medical leave. And wasn't Jason silently kicking himself over that. Clay's usual punishment for disobedience was running hills, didn't matter he loved to run, what mattered was, he ran too much, too far, too often, sometimes with weight on his back and now, he was skinny-minny, though, who could tell.

He didn't know what was up with Charlie and their intel but if he found out when Bravo got back home that they had deliberately withheld information…he sighed, shook his head. No, not Beau. He had to stop thinking like that…he didn't want to doubt everyone but the most recent episode with Delta left a sour taste in his mouth.

Non-violent village, Charlie said. No sign of hostiles, Charlie said. No located ammunition sites, Charlie said. No groups of fighting-aged males seen, Charlie said. And while it wasn't necessarily by-the-book Charlie's fault, there was gonna be a fight when Bravo returned home. Ray sighed, shoved the resentment down, let it go for now.

Bravo had split up to surround the village from five different directions to locate and take into custody, the alleged non-combative target – a peaceful, civilian family. Three hours later, they'd met up at their previously agreed up location to regroup.

They hadn't found their target.  
They'd lost comm's.  
They'd lost Sonny – and just wait until they got the hell out of here, and the teasing commenced. Just because Clay wasn't with him, didn't mean Sonny had to go and fill the role of someone-on-Bravo-always-gets-lost.

Once the remaining four members of Bravo had reunited, they'd begun a search for their missing teammate, finally narrowing their search down to a location roughly a mile away from the village…a metal shed sitting in the sun with no relief from the heat after Sonny had _finally_ responded to their shouts repeatedly calling his name.

When they'd tried to approach the shed, they'd come under heavy fire and were driven to take refuge in an abandoned, dilapidated structure and here they sat – their attempt to intervene and rescue their teammate, an abject failure. As long as they stayed where they were, no one shot at them.

It was suicide to expose themselves in a further attempt to reach the box and release him. He wasn't in the shed until he 'talked' or 'served his time'. He was in the shed to draw out Bravo and would remain there until the insurgent's reinforcements arrived, Bravo gained control or he expired. Or so Bravo guessed. They really didn't know why Sonny was in the shed or how he came to be there, who had put him in it.

Surrender wasn't an option. Everyone knew how these terrorist cells worked. It was capture, torture, kill.

"You think they captured Sonny, put him in the shed, called for transport?" Brock asked.

"So what, keep him contained until helps arrives?" Ray mused. "Would mean, there aren't that many of them."

"Would make sense." Brock continued. "This is supposed to be a peaceful village, not an armed encampment. What way better to keep an American soldier you just happened to stumble upon until help arrives."

"You think we're pinned down by one man?"

"Maybe." Brock shrugged. "Or villagers."

"Someone who lacks combat experience but is smart enough to know what to do." Jason kicked at the broken leg on a table. "Hate that shit. Never know what to expect."

"Would explain why they didn't kill Sonny." Trent agreed. "Or us. They aren't trying to kill anyone."

"Yet."

Silence. Whatever was going to happen, wasn't going to be good.

"QUINN!" Ray yelled out the window.

They sporadically called out to Sonny, he responded, someone fired at them, they shot back, silence settled. But Sonny's responses were getting slower, weaker, fainter. He was likely succumbing to the heat and their time was running short.

As of now, they were able to hold off whoever was trying to capture or kill them or take Sonny, because no one was trying to. No one attempted to go near the shed or come at them. They were only shot at whenever they called out to Sonny or tried to leave the building and approach the shed, and though they couldn't see the mounted machine gun, they knew what it was.

Just like they knew whoever was manning it, didn't quite know what they were doing with it; like they'd been given a single lesson on what to do in case they ever had to use it.

Their fastest rifle and majority of their explosives had been with Sonny, they hadn't expected resisitance. Now, it was a wait and see game: wait and see if Sonny succumbed to the oven he was baking in; wait and see if their ammo held out; wait and see if their shooting skills were better than whoever had them pinned down; wait and see whose reinforcements showed up first.

Flash grenades, smoke bombs and tear gas weren't going to do them a whole lot of good in this situation. God, please don't let whoever captured Sonny figure out just what weapons he carried. Hopefully they'd just taken them from Sonny and left them sitting somewhere, forgotten. Otherwise, they wouldn't need to wait for reinforcements, they had the means to blow Bravo to hell - right the fuck now.

"Makes no sense, to contain Sonny, hold us off."

"Unless their orders are capture, not kill unless necessary."

"All of us?"

"Guessing, what, four hours before we can expect reinforcements?"

"That's IF the pansies from the west coast are any good."

"If they ever landed."

"Can't be too many of them." Ray observed. "They aren't lighting us up."

"They're waiting, just like we are."

"How long do you think he has?" Brock asked Trent quietly.

"If he has water, doesn't panic, three hours." Trent replied. "He's sweltering to death in there, yeah, this weather, the sun, the metal box, could – will – kill him."

"Three hours 'til death?" Brock pushed. "Or 'til organ and brain damage?"

"Three hours." Trent repeated, moved away.


	3. Chapter 3

So, my knowledge of military grade weapons consists of…..yeah, not much. It is a subject that doesn't interest me and while I make an attempt with Google, I fail.

* * *

Clay rotated his ankle to test the tightness. With his shoulder too sore to rotate over his head, strength in his left arm was suspect and he was forced to sit impatiently while his boots were tied for him.

"Tight enough? You good?" Stewie asked. "Stop squirming." He scowled, elbowing Doc aside as they both jockeyed for position, access to Clay. "Sit still, you have two feet." As he squatted to try and tie Clay's second boot, Doc impeded his progress by attempting to occupy the same space. "Back off!" He pushed in front of Doc. Doc pushed back. Davis wedged between them, she hadn't returned with Charlie when Clay hadn't. Stewie shouldered her hip, she slapped his ear.

Clay nodded, stood up, reached for the backpack Davis held.

"Stand aside." Doc shot back, stepped around Stewie. "No, you don't." He tut-tutted when Clay tried to move away. "Sit still yet, not done with you yet." He held Kinesio tape, Clay sat down, waited patiently. "Ice it when you can." Doc instructed dutifully as he pulled and tore and applied strips of tape. "Put your sling back on soon as you are able."

"You sure you're up to this?" Davis again tried to hand Clay his backpack but Doc still wasn't done and now three people tried to help Clay who twisted and turned and made whatever they were trying to do more difficult. "Too heavy?" Clay held the backpack with one hand, shook his head, raised his arms best as he could so Davis could slide his arms through the straps.

"He will require both a shirt and a coat." Doc advised. "Arms up." He whistled, shook his head. "Still amazes me how fast you bruise and how easily you bleed."

"No coat." Clay objected. "Not in this heat."

"Long sleeves." Doc conceded.

Clay, sore arm against his side, was reaching around his waist with his other hand in search of a buckle, heard Doc, twisted the other way, tried to obey, became totally distracted when Stewie held up his helmet.

"I'm bleeding?" Clay felt his side, his arms, patted his stomach, tried to look over his shoulder. "I don't like the mic there." He told Stewie. "Where? Can't see it. Is it bad? Gimme a bandage. No, chin strap goes….gimme it."

"You're not." Davis assured him. "He's just saying you bleed easily….I'll fix your helmet."

Doc sighed, chuckled, his memories taken back to when his first born had been a toddler and he'd tried to dress the imp to go out and play in the snow. While he'd been trying to trap a hand in a mitten, a boot had come off. He'd stooped to replace that and the hat was gone. Stopped to find the hat, the cheeky brat was halfway out of his snowmobile suit. He'd thought at the time moms were super human because the child hadn't been trying to impede his attempts to get him properly dressed. He'd simply been too excited and eager to be on his way that he couldn't sit still. His wife had had the kid completely dressed in the time it had taken Doc to find the lost hat.

He gave Clay his best fatherly stern look of scold...yeah, did no good. It wasn't mittens and hats and boots this time, but the results were the same...Clay simply could not remain still and once Doc or Davis got one hand through a sleeve, he became distracted and they had to hold his chin, turn his head, grab his wrist, wrestle his second hand, then his head into the shirt. As soon as they accomplished fastening one belt or buckle or strap, another loosened. Clay was simply more interested in his equipment and weapons and what Stewie was doing to them then he was paying attention to Doc or Davis.

"Clay Spenser, I am risking my pension, my retirement by laying my rank on the line for you and your team. The least you could do is BE STILL!"

Clay froze, lowered his hands from where he was trying to help Stewie pack a sack he would carry while Davis tried to pull the strap securing his backpack tighter around his waist. He instantly looked contrite, his face remorseful.

"Sorry Doc." He kept his eyes down. "Just...it's taking so long."

Clay Spenser didn't apologize often, but Doc was one person who held his respect. The man did a lot for him, went above and beyond just being a Navy SEAL team doctor.

"You can't go running off half-dressed without properly securing your kit and equipment. You will be no good to them, you get dizzy, lose your balance, fall, pass out, get hurt."

Clay nodded, accepted the scolding, head down. "You're right. Sorry."

"Just listen to me. I want you to drink. If you vomit, ride it out, drink more, continue on once you keep liquids down. I don't know what ails you yet, blood tests haven't come back. Waiting on a lab at the local hospital." Doc shuddered. "Still won't trust it."

"Got it." Clay said, once again already distracted. "I'm okay. Davis, we got thermal imaging….I…." He swiped at Stewie. "Not that scope. Wait…no…that."

Doc sighed, turned to Blackburn. "I'm thinking ear infection."

"Roger that." Eric replied. "You sure he's up to this?"

Doc hung over Stewie's shoulder, reached around him to roll a thermometer across Clay's forehead, sighed at the reading; ducked and dodged to take his pulse, see his tongue that he stuck out upon command, offer him a couple tablets of pain reliever.

"He has the ability to push through." Doc wasn't happy about sending Clay out but the sniper wasn't going alone and Doc was concerned about Bravo, worried about what Five wanted. He wouldn't relax until Bravo was back and Jason was side by side with Blackburn in the fight against Five.

"Not what I'm asking." Eric said quietly. "He's running a fever, unsteady, gets dizzy."

Doc sighed, yeah, he knew that. "He knows his limits."

"It's his team." Eric said flatly. "He'll blow right past his limits."

Doc nodded, yeah, he knew that too. "He can do this."

"I'm good." Clay impatiently submitted to both Doc and Stewie even though he was eager to go. An hour run over the river and through some woods to find out what had happened to his team? Hell yeah, he was up for this.

Eric massaged his forehead, headache pulsing sickly. If only they could get air transport approved. *sigh* Wasn't going to happen though.

"Cell phone." Davis held it out. Clay didn't question it, pocketed it.

"Liquid Tylenol." Doc gave Clay a bottle, it found a pocket. "For your fever….take it every four hours."

"Sat phone." Stewie handed it to Clay. It went in another pocket. "ONLY if you need it."

"Drink frequently." Doc advised. "Meclizine. Take it only if the nausea becomes too severe or you vomit. Do not drink alcohol if you take it."

Clay snorted. Alcohol? Now? Pfft!

"That's pretty strong shit." Stewie commented. "It can cause impairment of motor functions."

"Has he taken it before?" Eric asked, knowing he had or Doc wouldn't be giving it to him.

"He has, he's not going to be driving and yes, it's stronger medicine than he requires but it's one of the few he doesn't throw a reaction to." Doc patted Clay's shoulder. "Fast finding out, most medication safe to take during pregnancy is safe for him." He grinned as Clay scowled. "You keep me busy."

"It's chewable, right?" Clay questioned Doc, who nodded. It went in some pocket or another.

"We lost comm's, don't know how their signal is being jammed." Davis was saying. Yeah, she was going with that. Not the reason they couldn't raise Bravo was because they were either captured or dead. She handed Clay a comm's unit he didn't normally use. "Different frequency, has a mic. You can leave it live or keep it muted, push to talk."

"So, for all we know, they could be sitting on a plaid blanket, sipping lemonade." Clay joked lamely as Davis attached some kind of thermal imaging device via Velcro to his belt. "That's good." He told her, hesitated, then asked. "Accurate?"

"Dependable." She hedged. "Experimental, don't stake your life on it." Or anyone else's.

"We have you on GPS via the strobe on your helmet, the tracking device in your watch and both phones." Stewie added. "As well as Blackburn."

"You lose me despite four tracking devices, Sonny's gonna hang you on a coat hook, leave you there." Clay teased Stewie, touching his watch to make sure it was still strapped securely around his wrist.

"I'm more scared of Davis." Stewie grinned. "No overhead watch, but we can follow you via GPS."

"If I have to come after you with the dog, no one will be happy." Doc waggled a finger. "If you experience vertigo, get short of breath, sit down, take a rest. Don't just lean against a tree."

Clay rolled his eyes, tucked a knife into a sheath on his left side….nag, nag, nag.

Eric, dressed in his kit with two backpacks, same as Clay, pocketed another sat phone, bit back a grin at the mental image of Doc trying to control Cerberus; holding the dog's leash, tromping through the forest, and either trying to keep up with the canine or trying to slow him down. "I'll try to keep up with you, but I don't expect to." There weren't many who could, Eric swore the kid was part goat. "Don't wait for me. Don't worry about me. Just go."

Clay nodded. "Check in every ten." He wished he could carry all the ammo, weapons, water and medical supplies needed, but there was no way he could and make good time. "No hostiles were reported in the area?"

"No, none." Stewie repeated patiently. "By all appearances and reports, it was a farming village."

"Just, don't get there and do something stupid. If you have to, wait for me." Eric said. "I won't be that far behind you."

"Good luck." Davis tucked water and Gatorade into every available pocket on both Clay and Eric. "Be careful."

Clay would run with ammo, technology, explosives, sniper rifle. Eric would follow with medical supplies, water, food, Gatorade. What he carried wasn't as important as what Clay could do.

Could Eric hit the broad side of a barn with a rifle? Shot gun? Hand gun? An automatic weapon? Sure, of course he could. Could he settle in high, pick men off with accurate, kill, head shots despite the distance? No, no he could not.

"Five will follow." Davis said, followed Eric and Clay out to the truck, Eric got behind the wheel. "Soon as I can get them on the road."

With a pat on the tailgate, she waved them on their way.

()()()

Sonny had long ago lost the ability to remain standing. The heat was unbearable, sapped his strength, his energy. Left him disoriented, confused and pretty much hallucinating.

Hot enough to fry an egg, he'd always heard that about the heat and humidity and muggy stickiness that was the east coast weather during summer – mostly July and August. Never would a bad word about his beloved Texas leave his tongue. He lived in Virginia, so yeah, he was an expert on east coast crappy summer weather. Ugh.

But what about hot enough to boil water? Bleary-eyed, he squinted at the bottle of boiling water between his feet. His captor – there had only been one – had only made him remove his weapons before politely showing him into the shed. With a gun to his head and the whereabouts and well-being of his team unknown, he'd willing entered, afraid his team would pay for his obstinance if he didn't. Pfft, like he'd had any choice anyway. It was either enter the shed or take a bullet to the head. The more he stared, the faster the water in the clear plastic bottle bubbled and boiled. Was the plastic melting? Eh, maybe he was hallucinating.

He bet he _could_ fry an egg in this metal shed that wasn't big enough for him to lie down in. He sat with his knees raised, elbows on his belly. He was hot, sweating, cramped and slowly being roasted alive.

At least now, he knew his team was okay. The gun fight had given him a panic attack, but then they'd called out to him, and just like that, he'd been able to respond that he was just fine and dandy. They shouted every so often, called his name until he hollered back all their yammering was giving him a headache.

Just want until he got back home! This was no peaceful village and no farming families currently resided here. What the hell kind of recon had Charlie done? Jesus, had they reconned a completely different village?

His head hurt. He was seeing things, his eyes were dry and his head was killing him. Couldn't be good.

***000***

Eric was tired, he ached…no, he hurt. Running on uneven ground, littered with rocks and stones and tree limbs with a 30lb backpack in intense heat for over almost an hour wore him out. Oh, how he wished they could have driven the truck further.

He was able to keep up with Clay only because the kid, who could have easily outdistanced his commander, kept to a pace that for him was probably moderate. For Eric, it was brutal, but he pushed on. They were closing in on the coordinates where the last communication from Bravo had been received and they paused for a last look at the map.

"Doing okay?" Eric asked as Clay pocketed the map, finished a bottle of water, nodded. Here is where they would split up.

Clay didn't answer, pointed across a field. "Heading for that hill."

Eric swallowed, groaned. The hill steep, rocky, lacked a path. "Not what I asked." So, Clay was heading high, would select a tree. That was good, the further away from Bravo, the better.

Clay grinned shook his head. "Just me. I'll let you know what I see." He pointed to the right. "Village is that way."

"Not what I meant." Eric sighed. Clay looked pale despite the recent exertion that should have left his cheeks pink, his face flushed. "Talk to me." It was an order.

"It's my team." Clay replied quietly. "I'm good."

Eric stared him down, Clay neither blinked nor looked away. Yeah, it was his team, he'd shove down and put aside his own misery and discomfort until his team was safe.

Giving in, Eric said solemnly, "Clay," his tone caused the sniper to pause. "We'll do everything we can to get Bravo back, but if you see Five, stay lost. Don't come in." He paused. "Unless you want a transfer to their team out west, stay put until we come get you."

"Something I should know?"

"McCall and Harrington are on it. No one except Davis, Doc, Randy and Stewart know you've left base, it has to stay that way, understand? We've diverted cameras, erased filming, gone dark, no one from Five can know you were out here."

Clay's eyes widened, but he didn't take the time to question the order, just nodded his agreement and understanding, bumped fists with his team's commander, took off. That was a discussion for another time, whatever Eric meant.

Eric finished his own bottle of water, crushed it and stowed it in a pocket. Moving forward, he keyed his comms. "You read me?"

"Loud and clear," came the panted response from Clay, who by the sound of his breathing, was jogging. "We aren't being jammed."

"HAVOC?" Eric asked.

"Got you." Davis replied. "Stay on this open line. Thanks to Randy, we're encrypted, speak freely."

"Roger that." He tried and failed to raise Bravo One on comm's, moved on.

Clay finally topped the hill, relaxed against a tree to observe the last known coordinates where contact with Bravo had been lost – the village. He had to wait until he caught his breath before his hands were steady enough to hold the binoculars still.

"Shit." He wasn't happy it took longer than it should have. A wave of nausea crashed, had to be wrestled into submission. He wasn't sure if it was because he was disgusted he was shaky and winded or because whatever illness was hounding him was flaring up. Regardless, it took some effort to stifle it.

He spent some time watching – mere minutes – the village and saw enough to dismiss the possibility Bravo was within its limits; activity was too calm, too normal, no one showed any fear or hesitation going about whatever they were doing. He relayed the information to HAVOC and Eric, climbed higher, moving around the hill, slipping and sliding because he had to walk sideways; abused his ankles, risked breaking one because there was no path, was in danger falling and tumbling down the hill on his ass.

Blackburn would approach the village, lay low, wait for word from Clay before making his next move.

Holding to tuffs of grass and bushes and anchored roots, he rounded a jutting boulder, hadn't realized how far from the village he'd traveled. He radioed Eric to skirt the village and move west beyond it then scrambled to a relatively flat splatch of land, raised his binoculars, saw; sand, rocks, gravel, dirt. So, fields maybe? Tilled, not planted? What kind of crop would grow out here?

He took his time looking around, decided he was looking at an abandoned church, perhaps the remnants of the first village. A dirt road came from the direction opposite the village, wide enough for maybe a small convoy truck, wondered where it led/came from, relayed the information to Davis so she could get the team in command on local maps. He shifted position, began a second look, a third, a fourth. Watched and waited and watched for any movement or activity…nothing, not even a bird.

He focused on the shining, glittering structure in the middle of a fallow field, the sun…a metal shed…too small to contain his team, surrounded by stop-sign sized flat sheets of tin or steel or metal….sure, sure….reflect more sun onto the shed.

Ouch.

He radioed HAVOC and Eric, relayed what he'd found, confirmed he didn't see anyone or any vehicles, heard nothing, couldn't confirm the shed was empty. No, it couldn't contain the team, it was too small, perhaps one man, but if anyone were trapped within, he wouldn't come out smelling like roses – he'd very likely be planted among them.

The sun was high in the sky, unrelenting and no shade was cast by anything in those fields.

Clay rested a moment, drank a Gatorade, swallowed some ibuprofen. His best advantage point would be choosing a sturdy, tall tree. He grimaced at the thought, still a bit unsteady, his shoulder sore, shrugged out of his backpacks, surveyed his options, made his choice.

Taking a breath, he backed up, started a trot that quickly became a jog, leapt, caught the tree branch with his good arm, swung his legs up, grabbed with his ankles, hung for a moment, then turned, hoisted himself using shoulder strength – which his shoulder violently protested – and began an odd one-handed climb to a height he was satisfied with.

His perch chosen, a quick scan with the thermal imaging/infrared scan Davis had sent with him showed four heat sources in the half-standing building to his right – most likely Bravo – and one in the shed. He swallowed. Someone from Bravo was in the shed…..how long had it been? He forced himself to move on….one, just one, heat source to his left.

Huh.

He put the scanner down, raised his binoculars. "Fuck." Clay cursed, palms sweaty. That right there, next to some kind of well camouflaged hut, was a mounted Browning twin M2Hb .50 caliper machine gun…powerful enough to reduce everything and everyone within range to rubble.

He radioed Eric, reported what he'd found, told him to come up behind the shelter where Bravo was hunkered down.

Settling himself as safely and as comfortably as possible, which wasn't all that comfortable, he straddled the tree limb, crossed his ankles beneath for stability, wished he were able to lay flat, support his sniper rifle on something more solid and smooth than a tree branch. He was further away than he wanted to be, but Eric forbid him to get any closer. He would still be able to make the shots, just, they would have to count, because at this distance, unless it was a head shot, it wouldn't necessarily be a kill shot.

Regardless of what happened, Clay would remain in the tree and out of sight of Five, who, according to Stewie had returned and geared up a hell of a lot sooner than expected. Eric was praying they would resolve this situation in Bravo's favor and call off the need for Five to come after them.

Clay swallowed, a bit wobbly from laying unevenly on his belly straddling a tree branch, the grip he maintained with his thighs the only reason he didn't topple from the tree. He sat up, sank his weight into the tree truck behind his back, breathed through the nausea. Closed his eyes against the sensation he was floating.

He felt better sitting up with his eyes closed, but the feeling of nausea and sudden flashes of flushing heat were getting worse and coming more often. He drank some Gatorade, sat a bit longer, opened his eyes. His hands were no longer shaking, the feeling of nausea had slightly abated and he felt steady.

He slowed his breathing, went back down on his belly. He tried to cross his ankles for a firmer grip with his thighs, but seconds later, he was spinning again, so he was forced to uncross them, wait for the feeling to subside and leave his feet dangling. That made his weight tip to one side then the other, righting himself was useless. He cursed, laid his head against the tree branch, the bark scratched his cheek….ouch.

He scooched backwards, taking his sniper rifle with him until the soles of his feet pressed against the tree trunk….that was better, not great, but acceptable. He repositioned his rifle, sited in, waited until his hands were steady, the leaves still, the breeze a bare minimum, fired high at the shed with an audible 'sorry brother'.

Gun fire erupted from the machine gun, which was what Clay wanted. He waited, watched, fired a shot near the machine gun in an attempt to draw out whoever was manning it. No one emerged.

"Shit!"

He sat up, unslung his automatic rifle, set the stock firmly against his shoulder. His left shoulder twanged in protest when he extended his arm to support the barrel. He ignored it as well as the renewed sensation he was about to test his ability to fly, swung his aim to the left, began a steady, repeated assault until his clip was empty.

Then, sniper rifle in hand, he waited for his attack to result in the effect he was looking for. There it was. A figure in head to toe robes appeared and darted to and fro, dragged something….probably reloading. Clay wasn't about to let that happen….he waited until he had a clear, kill shot, fired.

He watched and waited, but no one else appeared either via the thermal imaging scanner or through the binoculars. He saw nothing through the powerful scope on his rifle either, told Eric he was all clear to make himself visible to Bravo.

"Affirmative." Eric replied, told Clay to remain where he was and stay out of sight; his job, keep anyone from approaching the shed or shooting at it.

"Roger that." He'd hidden his backpacks before climbing the tree, so unless someone happened to notice his spent shell casings, no one would know he was in the tree, and he didn't expect anyone from Five to come this way.

Feet swinging, both guns ready at a moment's notice, Clay remained straddled on his tree limb, back against the tree trunk eating a granola bar and with a bottle of water. God, he wanted to jump down and run down the hill to his teammates, but he'd been ordered to remain afar and stay in his tree until Blackburn told him he could come down, so he stay put he would.

Still on high alert, he used his knife to cut off a small branch of leaves to swipe the greenish yellow mold, mildew, moss, whatever from the tree limb. Eew….it smelled. The hell was it anyway? He stretched out on his stomach to swipe away as much slimy slop as he could, peered through his rifle scope. Ugh, this shit was.…he went still, the bottle of water toppled from where it sat supported against his thigh, the granola bar went somewhere, never to be found again, the slime covered tree branch floated away, forgotten.

He sat up, pulled the strap to bring his binoculars around from where they hung heavily on his back. A cloud of dust on the dirt road had his complete attention. "Blackburn, incoming." He wished he could communicate with his team, let them know he was here, had their backs, Blackburn was near. "One jeep and coming fast. Five mikes out."

Eric cursed, threw all caution to the wind, ran full-out for the shed. Knowing that Spenser – even injured and sick – had his back, made him confident and reckless.

"Who the hell is shooting?" Trent wondered. "From where?"

"No where close." Ray replied.

Jason shouted for Sonny, waited, no one shot at them, but neither did Sonny reply.

"The fuck?"

"The hell?" Brock pointed as a man dressed in camo's ran out from the cover of the trees.

"That's U.S. military….." Ray began.

"That's Blackburn!" Jason was out the door and running towards the shed before Ray had finished speaking.

Clay swung the binoculars to watch his team erupt from their hiding spot, bolt for the shed. All four attacked at once, pounding, kicking, shaking, shoving the shed, rattled the door. Brock found a rock, began beating the lock. They were all shouting, rushing the shed with their shoulders, rocking it with brute force, but Clay couldn't hear what they were saying.

Why didn't they just shoot the damn lock? There wasn't time for this!

Eric joined them, pulled his sidearm, fired at the lock…nothing. Eric threw his hands wide, stepped back, yelled, waved everyone away.

"Blow it." Eric ordered Clay.

Clay didn't ask, 'why him'. Putting down the binoculars, he steadied his sniper rifle on the tree branch, sited in, and with a slightly cocky grin – hell, yeah, he was tickled he could make such a shot – shot the lock on the shed door. Eric tried the knob, stepped back. Clay blinked…no way had he missed…no fucking way. What the fuck kind of lock was on the damn door? He adjusted his aim, focused on the metal hinges that secured the lock to the door, shop both off…and the door opened.

Brock dragged Sonny out by his ankles.  
Ray bolted for the location of the machine gun.  
Jason followed Ray, but veered towards the hut while Ray headed to the gun.  
Trent knelt beside Sonny.  
Brock began to circle the shed, kicked through the dirt.  
Eric walked around the sheets of metal supported on sticks around the shed.|  
Trent dragged Sonny by his ankles to the shade of the nearest building.  
Clay sat up, nearly fell off the limb and out of the tree, righted his balanced, set the rifle across his thighs, watched while someone other than himself was stripped, his clothes cut off. He was amazed how quick and accurate Trent was. Whether he used his teeth, a knife, scissors, he had Sonny stripped to his boxers within seconds.  
Brock was back with a wood box, elevated Sonny's feet, darted off.  
Jason came running with rags or towels, a pail of water.

"Can you blow the gun?" Eric was asking.

"The gun or jeep, not both." Clay replied. Because he'd been running such a distance on foot, he hadn't carried a lot of weight. The small rocket/explosives launcher he carried was a one-time use...and Davis had only given him one.

"Sonny carried their heaviest ammo, weapons, do you see it?"

Clay swung the binoculars, started a search. "Behind the hut, there's a pile of tree branches, doesn't look natural."

Jason, soaking towels and splashing water on Sonny, glared at his commander who stood some distance away, doing nothing. Before he could say anything, Eric ran off, Jason shouted after him but Eric didn't stop.

Clay was halfway down the tree before he gained his senses, returned to his perch, sat, fidgeted, watched, waited.

"The hell's he doing?" Brock looked after Eric. "Nothing. Found nothing."

"He's not out here alone. Who the hell made those shots?" Trent demanded. "At that distance?"

"He's accurate." Brock replied. "Has eyes on us."

Ray was back. "Someone from the west coast team." He guessed. "Don't know much about them."

"Not many have that talent." Trent remarked. "Thought we had the two best snipers in the Navy?"

"Find anything?" Jason asked. He wanted Sonny's weapons. His men were either out of ammo or low and nothing they had would make much difference against the machine gun.

"No." Ray retorted. Brock had already struck out.

"OVER HERE!" Eric shouted. "GOT IT!"

"Are his comm's working?" Ray shook his head. "How'd he know where to look?"

"How's he doing?" Jason asked Trent.

"Pulse is rapid, breathing is shallow but he's still sweating, that's good."

"How bad it looking?" Jason asked.

"Could be worse." Trent slapped Sonny's cheek. "Sonny? Hey, you with me? Come on here, wake up, talk to me." He wished for his medical packs. Clay not with them, he hadn't even bothered to bring the basic first aid kit. All he had is what they all had…bandages, morphine, aspirin.

"Jeep approaching." Eric panted, he was winded. "Coming fast, don't know how many. Can blow the gun or the jeep, take your pick." He gave Jason the option. "Two mikes out."

"Can we use the gun against the jeep?" Brock suggested.

"Gun is mounted, can't move it." Ray said.

"It swivels." Brock argued.

"What med kit did you bring?" Trent was taking the bag Eric was swinging off his shoulder.

"Clay's." Eric told him. "Quinn okay?"

"Gonna be fine." Trent nodded, resisted the urge to hug the med kit. "Davis?" He guessed, grinned with Eric nodded. "Owe that girl a kiss."

Sonny growled.

"How far behind you is the rest of the west coast team?" Jason asked.

Eric gave him an odd look. "The rest of? Five?" He snorted. "Send them straight back to the west coast on a rubber raft, had my way."

"Something going on?" Ray asked.

"Blackburn? Gun or jeep?" Clay rasped in his ear. "Time is now."

"Jason?" Eric prompted. "Chose now."

"Who are you talking to?" Ray asked.

"Blow the gun." Jason decided. "Can't risk letting whoever's coming get to it." He eyed Eric, suspicion flaring. "Your guy good enough?" He asked sarcastically. Like he really had to ask. The sniper had shot hinges off a door lock.

"You tell me." Eric pulled his headset off, handed it to Jason. "Get Sonny inside, bring the weapons, let's see what we have. We have to hold 'em off until Five arrives, don't know how many there are."

"Blow the gun." Jason ordered.

The lazily drawled 'Roger that' confirmed Jason's suspicions. He handed Eric the headset, stooped to pick up a backpack.

"You and me." He glared at Eric, but he didn't get the response he expected. Eric was shaking his head.

"We got bigger problems than why he isn't on a flight home."

* * *

So, warning ya'll here, next chapter will jump...meaning, it will start with the team all back on base.


	4. Chapter 4

The threat to his team over, no one who had arrived in the jeep still alive, Clay remained in the tree and watched through the binoculars. He was told by Trent, via Blackburn, that Sonny was responsive and coherent enough that the medic was satisfied there was no lasting damage, and with some time, their teddy bear Texan would make a complete recovery.

Giddy with relief his team was okay, comforted by the thought his trek hadn't been in vain and he and Blackburn had arrived in time, grateful he'd been able to save Sonny from permanent damage or death, destroy the gun and provide support to his team for victory from afar, Clay gave in to his body's demands for attention.

He felt like shit.

He was hot and shaky, sweating and thirsty, fought with his stomach not to evict its contents, intestines included. Nothing he did – deep breaths, panting, holding his breath, rubbing his stomach, closing his eyes, laying down on his belly, keeping his head flat, pressing his palm against his forehead made the overwhelming nausea subside.

God, don't let his stomach win this battle.

Tasting bile, clammy, the mere thought of _possibly_ sitting in the stench of his own vomit – 'cause knowing his luck, even if he leaned over to puke, it would land on a branch right next to him or you know, he'd fall out of the tree – made him pull the packet of medicine Doc had given him from a pocket. He chewed the tablet, chased it with a hearty swig of liquid Tylenol.

"Let's go Blackburn," he muttered. "I'm ready to get outta here." His shoulder ached dully and he wanted out of his dirty, sweaty clothes, wanted to lie down in bed, maybe have someone bring him some pudding or jello. It was about all he felt his stomach _might_ tolerate.

Really, he'd settle for just smelling better. 'Cause he stunk. Ew.

The danger over, his team safe, Sonny rescued - Clay crashed. He felt every little ache and pain and bit of discomfort he'd previously stifled and ignored. Finally, he was able to relax, let his muscles go lax, shift his weight for a more comfortable position - he didn't find one.

He hunched a shoulder to wipe the sweat from his face, itched his neck. Huh, must be hotter up here, high in the tree. He let the binoculars hang around his neck from their strap, slumped against the tree trunk, drank some water. He tried to swing his feet up on to the limb, stretch his legs out, but the position tipped him left. When he attempted to balance his weight, he over-corrected, nearly fell off the limb to his right, was forced once again straddle the tree limb, let his feet dangle.

"Fuck me."

He wanted to get out of the tree, break open an instant ice pack for his shoulder and put his sling back on, but he stayed where he was, drank small sips of water until finally, he no longer wanted to hurl. Slumped boneless, against the tree, he ignored the little voice that told him Trent would scold him for drinking water so soon after taking medication.

With a sigh, he poured the remainder of the water over his head, let it trickle down his face...maybe it'd cool him off a bit.

It didn't.

He didn't know how much time had passed since he'd left base with Blackburn, how long he'd been in the tree, how long the gun fight with the occupants of the jeep had lasted, how long clean-up and containment was taking, but he was tired, his thighs were cramped, his legs tingled from dangling, his ass was numb and his back ached, so it'd been hours.

His perch wasn't a comfortable one.

Regardless of his discomfort, he must have dozed off for a bit, because when he next looked through the binoculars – which had become heavy to hold – it was dusk, Five had arrived and containment of the site was nearly complete. His job here was done.

He didn't yet have the all-clear to return to base, and though no further word had come from HAVOC, there was no longer any need for him to remain in the tree. He lowered his weapons and helmet and pack and gear and binoculars via a rope to the ground, began his descent.

He didn't climb down from the tree as much as...he fell out of it. Huh, he hadn't realized he'd climbed so high. Heights didn't usually bother him, but he had to admit he hadn't been feeling well, had been dizzy and spinning flat on his back in bed. Had started feeling awful on the plane to wherever the hell they were.

That had to explain the wavering, waving, elusive branches that simply would not be still and let him grab hold of them to ease his way down.

Oof, ow, ouch, oof, sonofabitch, holy mother…..owowowow...it was a long, painful descent from the tree. Clay finally toppled off the last limb that could bear his weight, hip catching on a branch that bowed and landed him on the ground, crouched but mostly on his feet. He weaved a moment, then went down hard on his ass, sat for another moment, then laid down on his back, knees up, hands on his belly.

It wasn't any cooler down here in the grass, but he was horizontal, flat on his back, the ground was softer than the tree and he wasn't going to move until Davis or someone told him he had to because it was time to make his way back to base, 'til then...Here. Was. Good.

'Cause good God, his body ached. _He ached_. Everywhere.

When word came he was good to return to base via Davis, he wasn't ready to go, wanted to hug the ground a little bit longer. He'd somehow rolled his sore, swollen, bruised body over onto his stomach and with night now upon him, the grass was wet and cool. His stomach was satisfied, his shoulder was quiet, he didn't feel hot or dizzy or flushed so he mumbled a reply that must have told her something like he'd sleep right were he was, return in the morning.

And Davis was having none of it: pertly told him.

Collect his shit.  
Leave no evidence he had been there behind; no trash, no empty shell casings, and because he was Clay, no blood.  
Notify command once he was mobile.  
Then implement radio silence.  
Turn off both phones.  
Kill the GPS on his watch and on his helmet.  
Let no one see him.  
Avoid cameras, security, dogs, any and all people.  
Be out of sight between these times to avoid the satellite. (THE HELL?)  
If he ran into trouble or needed assistance – life and death situation only - he was to contact them via the cell phone only. Otherwise, keep his radio and both phones off.  
Return to his quarters; do not pass the mess tent, do not stop at the showers, do not head to the infirmary.  
Anyone asked, he'd never left base, spent the day asleep in his bunk, held loopy by pain meds and muscle relaxants.  
Find Trent when he got back.

He didn't know what the hell was going on. Blackburn had told him some of it while they'd been in the truck but he'd been preoccupied; no, he didn't want to work with another team; no, he didn't want a transfer. He didn't like the west coast, didn't want to live there. Leave Bravo? Jason? Fuck no. But apparently, in the Navy, you did as you were ordered and unless Blackburn, McCall, Harrington and Jason could nip this in the butt, Clay may very well become Five-Nine.

Heehee.

His part, he'd been told, was to not let anyone know he'd gone after Bravo, made the shots, blew up the gun. Far as Five was concerned, that had all been Blackburn.

Davis yapped in his ear...yeah, yeah...he was 'get-goning'.

Getting up was a hell of a lot harder than it should have been.

***000***

Jason tried to relax against the harsh jets pulsing against his lower back in the gym's Jacuzzi, but the knots in his muscles just wouldn't uncoil. He reveled in the solitude of Bravo's locker room, soaked in scented bubbles – his guilty pleasure – and CCR played louder than he would normally allow anyone to play music but he remained tense.

He simply didn't care.

He was going to take his time and wallow. He earned it, he wanted it and no one had better come anywhere near him until he saw fit to rejoin what passed for society on base.

Before Five had arrived, Blackburn had filled Bravo in on why Clay hadn't flown out with Charlie, what Five had requested, how they'd reacted when they'd been denied and what he and McCall believed Five was now after. It had just piled on to Jason's anger and disgust with the whole god-damn bloody mission, but at least now he knew what Bravo was doing _here_.

Bravo never should have had to come _here_.  
Charlie should have completed this little 'escort a family' mission.  
Bravo should have flown directly to Malaysia.  
They'd been given false or incomplete intel.  
Peaceful village, his ass.  
They'd nearly lost Sonny.  
They might very well lose Clay.  
And it had all been a neat little set-up

Yeah, well, you know what Five? Welcome to live with Clay Spenser. Nothing ever goes as planned when the kid is at the center of it...if only Clay had gone home...

Jason squeezed his eyes shut until his forehead protested. Wouldn't have mattered. Sonny might well be dead, Bravo captured. Someone was going to pay for that too. Great, now he had a headache.

No, Five had a goal and would either see it accomplished or shot to hell by Bravo...one way or another, they would have pursued Clay. For Christ Sake, how high in the Pentagon did Five have contacts?

By the time he'd returned with his team to base, seen Sonny to the infirmary, he'd been livid. He'd put a palm in Ray's face and walked away before he found 'someone' and ripped his fucking head off. The hand gesture was well known by his 2IC…don't talk, don't follow, don't come near.

Jason had had enough.

He'd spent an hour punching the shit out of the weight bag, heavy rock music blasting, while waiting for Clay to return to base. The kid hadn't shown up. Hands stinging, arms aching, shoulders throbbing, Jason had finally switched the music, unwrapped his hands and jumped in the hot tub.

_The kid isn't back yet._

Yeah, no, hot water and his favorite music wasn't soothing him this time.

How much was he supposed to endure?

He'd lost Nate, Steve as well as all of Echo, his ex-wife, Adam, gained Clay – not that anyone or anything would make him willingly part with the kid. Not even the trouble or danger or incidents or events the kid found himself in or caused.

He swallowed, hunched, rolled his shoulders, sank deeper until the water reached his chin and the bubbles tickled his nose.

_He should be back by now._

His relationship with Ray had been fractured, Jason hadn't taken kindly to being lied to. He'd been in a chopper crash, suffered a severe concussion, been grounded to home base for six months. His mom had returned home after offering to uproot her life and relocate to Virginia to raise his son, but he hadn't been able to accept her offer. His daughter wanted to go to a school that cost an arm, a leg and a kidney.

_Where the hell is he?_

And now he very well might lose Sonny for an unknown length of time and Clay permanently.

Doc assured him Sonny was fit and fine, but yeah, he'd suffered an ordeal, might take a bit to bounce back from nearly cooking to death. Jason felt if it had been so bad as to be 'near death', Sonny should be in worse shape than he was, but eh, whatever. They had more things to worry about.

Relying on McCall and Harrington to fight this battle weighed on him. He knew he wouldn't be able to fight it alone, it sounded like it was gearing up to be one hell of a fight too. Fight though, he would, Clay was theirs.

_It's Clay, anything could have happened._

Bravo was due to leave this island and fly on to Malaysia and they had no idea was the hell was going to happen with Clay.

Sonny was going stateside, Doc's orders, and Jason understood and agreed. But Clay? When he hadn't boarded the flight home with Charlie, Five used it to plead their case Clay could and should stay right here and work with them. Eric wasn't having any of it and if he would let Jason anywhere near Rally, blood would spill.

What the hell was going on? If Clay had flown home, what would Five's next move have been?

_Why isn't he back yet?_

Jason laid his head back, sloshed the water, moved so the jets hit his hips rather than his back.

He and his team had gone through hell to make Clay Spenser theirs and now some dick from the west coast, who had the ear of a high-ranking Admiral thought he would just stroll in, make a few suggestions and walk away with Jason's youngest team member? Bravo's kid? Their 'he-would-always-be-the-rookie' brother?

Oh. Hell. No. Not a chance in hell. Not while Jason still breathed. Just no.

_How long do I have before I go after him?_

Clay was Bravo's. Dammit, they'd earned the right to call him theirs and no one, _no one_, was ever going to take him away from Jason. The kid wouldn't want to go, and even – if by some remote chance, a snowball managed to survive in hell – he wanted a transfer, Jason wouldn't allow it. Nope. Nuh-huh, he was training, grooming, preparing Clay to lead Bravo after he retired. The work and effort he'd put in so far was not going to go to waste, he wouldn't let it.

Yeah, that was the reason he was tied in knots, sick to his stomach, sure.

He felt gut-punched. Was so tired and weary and worn down, he bordered on depression. Okay, maybe not depression but yeah, he felt pretty damn low. He wanted to cross his arms, stick out his lower lip, throw himself on the couch and pout until he was given his own way. And what he wanted, was no one in his fucking business.

He splashed water on his face, kept his eyes closed.

They'd just dragged Sonny into the shelter they'd abandoned when the gun blew. Not just, knocked off its base or pieces shot off, no, it had exploded, sending flames and plumes of black smoke high into the sky. Eric hadn't been able to tell him what Clay had blown it with, had only said Davis had supplied Spenser with the weapon's he had with him.

Jesus!

Trent and Ray had treated Sonny while Brock, Jason and Eric, along with assistance – bless the kid – from Clay, had handled the incoming hostiles on the jeep.

_He should be back by now._

It was clean-up that had taken so long. Support had flown out so Bravo had been left to collect evidence, bodies and intel.

Eric had filled Bravo in as much as he could about Five and their pursuit of Clay.  
Then Five had arrived.  
Tensions had been high.  
Sonny had been sent back to base with a medical team Davis had finally gotten clearance to send in via the same road the jeep had arrived on.  
Tempers had been short, attitudes rampant.  
Rally had deferred to Blackburn's leadership and command, not Jason's.  
Eric had interfered, headed-off, broken-up more than one heated disagreement, argument, near fight.

When Rally had sarcastically complimented Blackburn on his superior sniper skills, Trent hadn't missed a beat, replied; 'yeah well, that's why we travel with our Lt. Commander, doesn't yours ever go out in the field on a mission with you'?

_I'm going to kill him._

Even though they'd been told, Bravo hadn't needed to know why Blackburn had kept Clay's involvement quiet, to take his cue and simply go with whatever he said. Eric had explained that as far as anyone and everyone was concerned, Clay had 'never left Bravo's barrack's' and that was all Bravo needed to trust him.

Because Five had been denied their 'reasonable request' to have Clay accompany them on an escort mission and interpret...  
Because Clay had been remanded to quarters by Doc with a fever and vertigo after Clay had complained of illness and not flown home...  
Because Five wanted Clay for themselves and their chance of getting him was big enough to worry about it...  
Because Five felt if they could prove Clay had disobeyed orders, had left base to go on a 'rescue mission' after explicitly being ground for medical reasons, they could successfully argue for a transfer.

Neither Eric nor Doc denied Clay was sick. Both freely admitted it. Doc also said, yeah, Clay_ could_ have flown home with Charlie, but well, he hadn't wanted to leave _his_ team with back-up from _a_ team they didn't know and yeah…Clay usually got what he wanted. He would fly home later with Doc and Davis on any available military flight when he was feeling better…so said Doc.

But…Apparently, somehow, someway, Five had decided if they could prove Spenser had gone after Bravo after being denied the opportunity to use his skills on a non-violent mission, despite being injured, ill, medically grounded and not flying home despite an order from D.C. to do so, they could use that as a reason to acquire Bravo's linguistic sniper temporarily, if not permanently.

And dammit, they had the upper brass listening.

_Jesus Clay, somehow let us know you're okay!_

Jason didn't understand, he was simply too tired to follow the fucked-up reasoning everyone laid in front of him. He put his trust in Blackburn, his faith in Doc, said a prayer and hid in the hot tub. Clay was loyal, dedicated and committed, he'd be pried from his team, his brothers, his comfort and home with brute force.

He was due in a meeting once he got himself 'together'. He supposed that meant shower, meal, clean clothes, but since it hadn't been specified, he'd decided to vent some anger and wallow until someone was sent to retrieve him. He figured once Eric was ready for him, someone would track him down, invade his peaceful little haven…

"Jason?"

_Dear God, get your ass back here before I'm forced to produce you!_

"Spenser back?" Jason didn't move.

"No."

And they couldn't go after him. Doing so would admit he was out there and they would lose him…again…this time, most likely for good.

Hell, he was so tired he was repeating what he was saying to himself.

"It time?" Jason asked his Lt. Commander.

"Got a bit yet. Randy's able to delay calls getting out or through."

"What are our chances?"

"Not as dismal as they could be."

"But not good."

Eric sat down on a weight bench, rolled a 50 lb weight with his foot. "Depends."

"On?"

"Clay didn't have a bruise or cut or scrape on him when he left here."

"No one from Five knows that."

"Base doctor's do." Eric said solemnly. "Doc's doing everything he can, but he's risked enough. I won't put him on the spot."

"He's not coming back looking like he's been asleep in his bunk all day." Jason agreed about Doc. The man would fudge and hem and haw and mislead and exaggerate, but outright lie? Bury the truth? Jason would never ask him to do any such thing.

"Then you need to make him look like he was."

"How?" Jason asked incredulously. "He ran for over an hour in this heat, through a forest, hunkered in a tree, is making his way back here in the dark, not even a flashlight. Jesus Blackburn, he's gonna look like..."

Eric closed his eyes, rubbed a hand over his face, played with his beard.

"You and Bravo never laid eyes on him out there, you are the only one who spoke to him. Bravo won't have to lie."

"You and Doc and Davis and Stewart?"

Eric shrugged. "Doc and Stewie never saw Clay leave this base."

"It's really going there?"

"'Fraid so."

"What do we do?" God Damn, Jason hated this. "Not fair to Davis either."

"You trust Trent, how much are you willing to put on him?"

"If it means keeping Clay? I won't have to ask him."

"Let's round the boys up, we got maybe thirty minutes and they're gonna wanna talk to you."

"He's not back."

Four tracking devices and established comm's didn't make him feel any better – especially since they'd gone radio silent. Randy was good, damn good, Jason knew no one better but that didn't mean someone wasn't. Yeah, yeah, Clay had reported in he had left the tree, gathered his belongings, located – yes, he had damn well counted – his shell casings and had left no trace he'd ever been in the tree and was on his way back.

No, he wasn't coming back at the same speed with which he'd left. Yes, he'd broken open an instant pack and applied it to his shoulder which he did have back in a sling. He was drinking both water and Gatorade, had taken ibuprofen, felt okay, just a little sluggish, expected to be tucked up in his bunk, Cerberus at his feet by the time Five managed to gain entrance into Bravo's barracks.

_But he wasn't here!_

"He's got until top of the hour, then Brock's taking the dog for a walk."

"Guys decent?" Davis knocked.

"Come in."

***000***

"Woof!"

"What's his problem?" Ray asked sleepily. "Someone knocking?" He rolled over, hugged his pillow. "Why's he barking?" Pause. "Someone _is_ knocking."

"Brock, get the door." Trent, sprawled on his back, yawned.

"No one's knocking." Brock grunted. If he got up, he'd lose his bunk to a four-legged, 55-pound dog who grew three sizes whenever he was the sole occupant of Brock's bed.

"Definitely knocking." Ray tossed a pillow at the door, it hit the floor well short of its mark. "Go 'way!" He yelled.

Brock sighed, swung his foot over Cerb's head, sat up. The dog didn't move. "WOOF!"

"Probably Stewie." Trent rolled onto his side so he could see who was at the door when Brock opened it.

"Davis wouldn't knock." Ray agreed.

Yawning, hand in his hair, pushing his bangs off his forehead, Brock opened the door. He didn't expect an attack or even a prank, but still, he was unexpected for what toppled forward into his arms.

"I'm baacck." Clay swayed, stepped forward, went down in Brock's arms.

"Shit!" Trent launched from his bunk as Brock, on his ass with a lapful of dirty, wet Clay, shifted his weight so he could stretch his legs out, spread his knees and let Clay fall between them.

"Hey ya," Brock greeted huskily, peering down into Clay's face. "Hi." He reached to unbuckled the strap under Clay's chin.

"Clay Spenser! Where have you been?" Ray demanded, on his feet and pushing Clay's left leg with his foot so he could close the door. "What took you so long?"

"Had...to tie...my boot." Clay mumbled. "Fell over." He sorta shrugged. "Hide...from...sky." He licked his lips, winced. "Ow. Nis hurts." He lifted his left arm from his sling. "Run from…mad bird." He blew his breath out. "Had to walk. Tired."

Every light in the room went on, two flashlights clicked on, their beams bright, moved up and down and all around the sprawled body at their feet.

"Christ." Brock muttered, pulling off and tossing aside whatever piece of equipment came loose when he tugged. "You stink."

"Woof!" Cerberus agreed from the comfort of Brock's bunk.

"LOOK AT HIM!" Ray gasped, hands to his hair. He turned in a circle, hoping when he completed the rotation, he wouldn't still see what he saw. "THE HELL DO WE DO NOW?"

"Don't yell," Clay panted, swallowed, held tight to the hem of Brock's shorts. "At me."

Trent sighed, hands on his hips. This was going to harder than he'd thought.

"Shit Trent," Brock breathed, accepted a towel from Ray. "We can't...I mean...can you do anything?" He wiped mud from Clay's face, unbuckled numerous straps and belts. "Did you expect this?"

"Gonna take some work." Trent chewed on his lip, already thinking. "Know better once I clean him up."

Clay tilted his head, blinked crud-crusted eyelashes until they parted and he could see. "Trent?"

"Yeah buddy?"

"I don't feel so good."

"I know you don't."

Brock snapped his fingers, Cerberus jumped to the floor, stretched, padded over, nudged Clay with his nose, pulled back with a shake of his head.

"Doesn't smell so good, does he?" Brock grinned. "Open the door Ray. Cerb, find Jason."

"Woof!" The dog slipped through the door, melted into the night.

()()()()

"Wait, say what? What are you saying?" Sonny asked slowly. "Cause it sounds like you're saying anyone finds out Clay saved our asses, we'll lose him." He shook his head. "What the hell happened while I was unconscious?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Eric said, voice calm, if not entirely steady. What the hell did they think he'd been saying all this time? "Five took their request for Spenser up the chain…"

"How far up the chain?" Brock interrupted.

"Harrington?" Ray guessed.

Eric shook his head.

"Admiral?"

Eric shook his head.

"Pentagon?"

Eric shook his head. "White House."

Silence.

"Trent, whatever bags of tricks you have up your sleeve, pull them out." Eric stated. "Not looking good here."

"Meaning?" Sonny demanded from the cell phone screen propped up against a coffee mug, chaffed as being confined to the infirmary, he'd facetimed Ray. "The fuck does that mean Blackburn?" He started pushing the blankets off his legs. "I'm coming over."

"Stay put." Jason growled. "Need you there." He, Eric and Davis had been coming up with a plan while he'd been in the hot tub before Cerberus had trotted in. Jason had immediately left the tub, knowing if Brock had sent the dog after him, Clay was back.

"It means Five's Commander is flying in Brass with balls big enough to take Clay away from Bravo if they can prove he suffered further injury or illness while 'confined to base'."

"Jesus Blackburn, he's bruised and swollen and red and green….there's a fungus among us." Brock still sat on the floor with Clay. "He lifts his head, he pukes. He sits up, he falls sideways. He stands up, he falls over."

Yeah, that was as far as they'd gotten trying to get Clay off the floor before Cerberus had returned with Jason and Eric.

"We can play on his shoulder injury, his illness that kept Doc from sending him home, kept him from going on our mission." Trent said thoughtfully, mind racing. "Gonna need some things, I'll need Davis, this could work."

"Wait, really?" Ray said. "They'll be here when Blackburn?"

"No one will tell me, but we're on a clock."

"You think you can reduce the swelling, fade the bruises….have him upright and coherent?" Jason asked his medic, ignored Sonny.

"Not gonna be easy, but that kid can fight through anything, he wants to." Trent pointed out. "They're not gonna take him to the hospital for x-rays, or make him strip for a physical…..uh, right?" He turned to Blackburn.

"Right." Eric said firmly. "We just have to produce him looking much like he did before he left."

"What the hell kind of plan is that?!" Sonny raged. "Really? _Really_?"

"But Five didn't see him before he left." Brock argued.

"No, but people on base did. They will force Davis and Stewie and Doc, the freaking cook to testify to Clay's condition."

"Wait, wait…..so, you don't want to force them to lie about how he looked, but you're willing to hide the fact he left base to come after us." Ray said. "This is getting out of control."

"I'm confused." Sonny complained. "Pick me up, turn me left, the other left, yeah that way, let me see him."

"Davis and Stewie aren't the problem." Eris said, moved the phone too quickly, made Sonny squawk. "It's the MP's and anyone else on base who Clay interacted with who won't know the story."

"Higher...not that high...wait..." Sonny ordered. "Making me dizzy...stop waving me around...for fuck's sake, hold me still."

"We can do this." Trent was telling Jason. "I can, I will, but do you trust me? I'll fix him, but you ain't gonna like how I get it done."

"Anyone ask Spenser what he wants?" Ray asked.

"Hey now, you just shush up junior boss." Sonny spluttered. "Don't matter what the kid wants. We all want the same thing and he's gonna like it or else."

The door opened and Davis entered. "Eric? Conference call. Jason, you too." She looked apologetically at Ray, took the phone from Blackburn. Sonny squealed...wheeee. "You're required to report to 'headquarters' to give a statement. Sorry Brock, you're ordered into custody." She raised a hand. "Only until they're done with Ray, you're next is all."

"What?" Sonny yelped. "How is…."

"Shush you." David grinned, turned the phone towards the wall, ignored Sonny's cursing. "Trent, Sonny's suffering a relapse," she paused, gave the phone a shake when Sonny grunted he was having no such thing, "Doc requested your presence in the infirmary to show you what you did wrong and teach you more about the debilitating symptoms Sonny's ordeal caused so you will know how to better help someone should this happen again."

"He doesn't need to learn…" Sonny started then lowered his eyes sheepishly when Davis held up the phone and waggled her finger at him. "Right. Right. Yes, Trent, you should do just that. I feel…" He coughed, palmed his chest, rubbed. "Little weak, hard to catch my breath."

"I was sent to find you." Davis said. "Gimme his gear, I'll clean and return it before someone decides to do inventory. I sent him with as much spare equipment as I could, but he insisted on somethings being his own."

"You'll tell me, he needs a hospital," Jason paused, received the glare of death he expected. "I trust you, but..."

"No one wants to have the kid taken away from us _Boss_." Trent made the word boss sound like both a curse and an insult. "Ain't gonna risk his health or career just to keep a_ possible_ transfer from happening."

Eric was quiet, this was more than a possibility. It was happening unless Bravo pulled a miracle outta their asses.

Jason nodded, gave Trent a hug. "Where do you want us to take him for you?"

"Showers."

"I'll send Stewie to help you." Davis said. "He's been questioned and dismissed. You all owe him a year's worth of beer, he was awesome." She took the helmet Brock handed up. "Everyone has a part here, play it." She took the unloaded sniper rifle from Ray, the unloaded automatic rifle from Trent. "I'll come when I can Trent. Ray," she turned to give him a smile. "Take as long as you can, Brock you too. Babble, ramble, delay. 'Cause when they're done with you, it's Trent's turn." She looked down at Clay, nudged his hip with a toe. "And the more time you give Trent with Clay, the better."

"Detach him and I'll help you carry some of this shit Davis." Brock jiggled his leg. "Jason and Blackburn can carry him, then I'll follow Ray."

Jason complied, Clay let go with a huff and a slap. "Can you burn these clothes? Never gonna come clean."

"Randy has a bonfire going for morale." She grinned. "Got you covered. Gimme that towel, Brock, you'll have to change, sorry, but I'll have to burn your clothes as well."

"Let's do this." Ray clapped his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

Trent stood, hands on his hips, and stared at a mostly unresponsive Clay, who Jason and Eric had left sprawled on the floor of the showers in the locker room. They'd helped Clay strip to his boxer briefs then departed with back slaps and words of encouragement.

Trent sighed. This kid...wow.

This was going to be harder than he thought; ice and a cold shower just might not be enough. He was dealing with something more than sore muscles and stiff joints but he hadn't said anything to Jason. His boss had enough going on, enough to deal with, why add to it?

Hell, it was Clay, so this wasn't totally unexpected. Removing Clay from Brock's lap had resulted in the kid spewing the contents of his stomach all over the floor, prompting Trent to give him a shot of Phenergan and waiting for it to take effect before they carried him here. So yeah, the boss knew something was up. You could call Jason a lot of thing - stupid wasn't one of them.

If only Clay hadn't had a physical here on base, none of this would be necessary, but he had and it was, so Trent would suck it up and deal with it.

"Spense? Hey, can't sleep here." He toed Clay in the hip until the kid grunted, pulled away.

"Then lemme go'ta bed." Clay scowled, pushed his wet bangs off his forehead. "Why'd ya bring me here?" Well, he was dirty, wet, and sticky. And he really didn't feel well. Still, he'd prefer to get some sleep before cleaning up. "I'll shower later."

Trent blinked, surprised Clay had responded coherently. Hum...maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all.

Stewie, arms full of bags and boxes and a bottle or two, kicked the door to the showers gently with his toe. He didn't have to wait for someone to open it for him, it swung open on its own.

"Hey there puppy." He greeted Cerberus in a soft tone. "You gonna let me in?"

A low, warning growl stopped Stewie in his tracks but before he could say anything, Trent called to the dog everything was okay and Cerb, tongue hanging out, wagged his tail and sniffed around Stewie's feet. Despite his arms falling off from the awkward bundle of weight they held, Stewie remained still until Cerberus turned and trotted off.

"Davis sent what you asked for."

"In here." Trent sighed.

Stewie walked through the gym, past the rows of urinals, stalls and sinks, across the locker room to the room with the showers and hot tub. He dropped everything he held in his arms, swung a backpack off his shoulder, went to stand by Trent.

"Huh." He commented, stood in the doorway. "Where do we start?"

Trent sent him a sideways glance. We? "They done with you?"

"I'm a supply clerk low on the totem pole." He shrugged. "They don't expect me to know anything. Davis said I'm to help you until she or Ray can get here."

Trent handed him a slip of paper. "Go help Davis find everything on here."

"Right." Stewie took the list, didn't read it. What more could the medic possibly want? "Okay then." He collected every article of clothing, boots included, Clay had worn to find his team, along with what Brock had been wearing when Clay had collapsed in his arms, several towels and left to take them to Randy to burn in the bonfire. Then he'd collect the requested items and return to do whatever he could to help.

Trent preferred to either work on his own or with someone who knew him well enough to anticipate when to help or when to stay out of his way but Stewie would have to do until Ray or Brock arrived.

Since there was a drain in the floor, Trent filled a bucket he found in a janitorial closet with warm water and dumped it over Clay until the majority of the mud was gone - only took five fills and dumps.

He'd likely have to clean the floor, but hopefully by then, some of his team would have returned. Ray would help Stewie get the job done. Good ole Ray - cleaner of all Bravo's messes.

Clay, when groggy or under the influence of medication, didn't always react as expected and Trent wasn't sure how long he would remain coherent. The kid was bruised and swollen and bruised some more. Scratched and scraped. Still sprawled on the floor, he didn't flinch or attempt to move away from the water. Mostly likely because he thought the dousing from the bucket would be the only bathing Trent would require him to take.

Ha, Trent snorted, if the kid only knew what was coming, he'd be running away so fast, Cerberus wouldn't be able to catch him. Man, how did the kid manage to get bruises in places not known to commonly bruise?

"Fell…outta…tree." Clay licked his lips. "Ow."

Trent blinked, hadn't realized he'd said anything out loud.

"Bet that didn't feel so good." Trent chuckled, squatted down. "You awake? With me? Want something to eat? Sandwich? Soup?"

"Freakin' hurt." Clay scowled, squirmed on his back, flopped like a fish, ended up in the same position he'd been in when he'd started flailing. "Coming down…sucked." He paused, paled as the mention of food caught up to him. "Not hungry." He laid a palm on his still-sore belly. "Jell-O maybe." He added after a moment. "Grape."

Trent agreed. He'd taken up residence in tree a time or two and you came down from it stiff and sore and cramped and that was with a two-armed dismount.

"Didn't break anything, did you?" Poor Stewie, Trent thought, now he'd have to hunt down not just Jell-O, but grape Jell-O. "Any significant pain anywhere?"

"Uh, no." He licked his lips. He was sprawled all but naked on a dirty shower room floor and Trent wasn't helping him up after his bucket bath. "Guess I'm taking a shower, huh?"

"Yup." Trent surveyed the floor, the muddy mess, sighed. Sure, sure, of course _not all the mud_ had washed down the drain. What'd he expect, it was _Clay_! "How the hell'd you get so dirty?"

"I'd rather just go to bed." He pushed up on to his elbows, winced at the twinge in his shoulder. "There was a bird..."

"A bird?" Trent's lips twitched. "It, uh, chased you?" He turned his head to hide his smirk. "You were chased by a _bird_?"

"It was a huge ass bird Trent." Clay snapped crossly. "Ostrich, emu, I dunno. Son-of-bitch was mean." He pulled his knees up, planted his feet flat but didn't attempt to sit up.

"Emu's are not native to this island kiddo." He grasped Clay's knee, shook his leg affectionately. Leave it to Clay to be bested by a bird. "Not a bear or chimp or big cat, a bird." He let go, patted Clay's thigh. Yeah, what he thought, Clay would let him do anything he wanted to.

"Fuck you."

"Can't go to bed." Trent turned Clay's head to face him. The blonde blinked, squinted, but didn't pull his eyes into focus, his level of exhaustion reflected in their blue depths and whites shot with red. Trent stood up. "I know Blackburn told you about Five and their request for you to remain here and translate for the duration of their mission."

"Duration? How long? Thought it was just for...…" Clay paused. "Just that one time and they were told no. They went without me."

"Yeah, well, it's gone further than that. Jason and Blackburn are in a meeting with top brass and Ray's being questioned. Brock and I will be as well as Sonny. Everyone's doing what they can to give me some time to get you on your feet."

"What'd I do?"

"Nothing." Trent said firmly, hoping to ease any fears Clay was building up in his head. "This isn't on you."

"Cause I didn't fly home?" He rubbed his eyes. "And went after the team?"

"They don't know you went with Blackburn, no one does, and they can't know." Trent said sharply. "You never left base, you got that?" wide-eyed, Clay looked like he'd just been reprimanded for something he didn't do but would take the blame for anyway. He nodded, bottom lip plump from biting it. "Just...they want to force a transfer. Take you from us."

"What? No. I...can they?"

"Not if we can help it."

"I don't want to go."

"We know. And no one wants you to go. They have it up their ass that if they can prove you disobeyed orders and came after us, it will ensure the transfer. So, you gotta work with me." Trent gently twisted and bent and maneuvered Clay's sore arm. "Trust me. Can you do that?"

Clay nodded, didn't resist when Trent grabbed his good arm and made him sit up.

"This hurt?" Trent ran his hands up and down Clay's back, across his shoulders, down his arms, over his chest and belly. "You breathe okay?" He knew he'd just doused Clay in warm water, but he didn't like how warm the kid's skin was. "The hell you still running a fever from?" He muttered, back of his hand against Clay's forehead. "Christ, I don't need this."

"Uh, yeah." He winced when Trent hit a particularly sore spot, flinched a time or two, ducked away once or twice but mostly sat still while Trent rubbed and pressed and poked and prodded. "Ow! You done?"

"Jesus." He clicked his tongue over the numerous scratches, a rash, swollen cheek. "Shoulder feel any worse? Make a fist."

Clay reached and raised and twisted and clenched on command, his range of motion limited on his left arm. Trent didn't like the degree of difficulty it took for Clay to do the exercises, but he wasn't concerned.

"You take anything out there?"

"Uh, yeah. Doc gave me something, I felt like puking. Had to take it in the tree." He opened his mouth on command, let Trent flash a light to see his throat, said aah. "And liquid Tylenol." He scrunched his nose as he searched his fuzzy memory. "Don't know when I last took any though."

"Still feel dizzy? Spinning? Floating?"

"Not so much." But he'd yet to attempt to stand up. "Tired, can I go lie down now?"

"Sure," Trent lied. "Stand up."

Clay was able to pull his knees up but his bare, wet feet slipped on the floor and he was too tired and too stiff to push up one-handed. He tried, gave it a good effort, but Trent had to help him. The medic patiently slung Clay's good arm around his neck, slide his other arm around Clay's waist and bodily hauled him to his feet.

"You're...not gonna let me go...are you?" Clay bit his lip to keep from moaning in misery. Sitting down, he'd felt fairly okay, but once he was on his feet, the earth tilted to the right and spun dizzily.

"What? I'm not getting in the shower with...…"

"No...Five." He curled his sore arm against his side. "You...guys won't let they take me, will you?" He looked so sad and forlorn and scared, Trent couldn't help but give the wet, shivering kid a hug.

"Clay, kid, trust me when I say, we're all doing everything we can." Trent paused. "We have a plan, you have to help us pull it off, but not until later."

Clay rolled his forehead against Trent's shoulder. "Ok."

"This way...over...no step...spread your feet...that's it...can you stand?" Trent let him go little by little, bit by bit until Clay stood on his own in the shower. " Whoa!" He steadied him when Clay swayed. "You good?" Trent turned the shower on, adjusted the water. "Doing okay?" He asked even though he knew Clay wasn't. "Can you wash? Soap, shampoo, scrub." He turned around to face Clay, a net loofah in one hand but Clay had slumped against the tiled wall, was slowly sliding down it. "No, don't sit. You…you can't do that…." He threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine, sit on the floor then."

He'd thought Clay was going to stay with him enough he could clean himself up in the shower, but yeah, no, wasn't gonna happen. Apparently, trust me to Clay meant: let go and Trent will take care of everything. While to Trent, trust me meant: Don't fight me, work with me, everything will be okay.

He sighed, pushed a hand through his hair. Just what he wanted to do, give his friend a shower.

Well, he squared his shoulders, nothing for it.

Avoiding the spray of water, he stepped out of the shower, removed his shirt, sat down on a bench to untie his boots. The things he did for his team.

He paused, crossed an ankle over his knee to work on a knot. The things he did for the kid - the things they all did.

Eh, Clay was worth it. A better friend, a more loyal teammate, couldn't be found.

***000***

Jason sat between Eric and McCall. Harrington was Skyped in on a large TV monitor on the wall. He'd refused to meet Five's Commander and Lt. Commander, turned his back when introduced, didn't protest when Eric ordered him to his seat.

"So, that's the legendary Hayes." Five's Lt. Commander, Nickson, sipped coffee, spoke to Five's Commander Carey. They had flown in, met with Rally and were now ready for this meeting where they hoped to be granted permission to gain entry into Bravo's barracks, finally meet Clay Spenser.

For they were confident, if only they could ever lay eyes on the sniper, they could surely prove Spenser had disobeyed direct orders, manipulated staying here – though, him flying home due to a failed physical hadn't been part of their plan. Grounding him here while Bravo flew on to Malaysia had been their goal – and operated despite being medically grounded and ordered home.

If they could do that, prove Hayes didn't have control over his own man, then they'd be able to complete their mission to force a transfer. And they wanted Clay Spenser on their team. They wanted his language skills and they were determined to get him by any means necessary.

Nickson cast a glance at Hayes, who sat leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. It had taken an order from a Rear Admiral to get the man in the room for this meeting. He'd ignored the order from Five's Captain.

Hayes didn't look smug or worried, just glared a stare of death at Rally, responded only to his immediate commanding officer, Blackburn.

"Tread carefully." Carey warned. "The man didn't earn his reputation by playing nice."

"He has no ground to stand on."

"We haven't been able to prove it yet." Carey said calmly. "I have clerks and investigators digging and searching, but so far, they've come up with nothing."

"We will. No team is that good." Rally spoke up, said firmly. "No way did Blackburn get Bravo out of that tight spot without assistance. Someone made those shots from a sniper perch." He paused. What had happened at the village was still unexplained. Yes, Five had made the request for Bravo to be diverted to this island to finish Charlie's mission, but at no time, had they manipulated the intel and recon on the village.

No one would ever intentionally place another team – even one from a different platoon or squadron or coast – in danger where their lives were threatened. And if someone had, Rally knew nothing about it.

"You didn't find it."

Rally frowned. That was true. His men had gone back out, searched for signs and evidence that someone else had been out there, but had found nothing. He wished he had more time to search, wished it had been daylight, guessed Spenser had set up further away than he'd originally thought. Too late now, though.

Well then, if they couldn't find evidence of a sniper or video footage of Spenser leaving base or surveillance photos from the satellite of another man in the forest with Blackburn to support their theory, the physical appearance of Clay Spenser would surely cement their case.

"Someone blew that gun, it was still burning when we got there. No one on Bravo had a weapon that could have done that." Rally insisted.

"Quinn's explosives were recovered and made available to Bravo." Carey offered the argument McCall had already made and so far, he and his men hadn't been able to prove otherwise. If they had more time, forensics and reconstruction of the events would prove what everyone knew but he was convinced Blackburn and Hayes would not allow the kind of time needed to implement such actions.

"Yeah, after the shooter was taken out and they didn't have a weapon capable of making the shot that killed him."

"They did when Blackburn got there."

"So, what, Perry made the shot with the rifle Blackburn carried?" Rally thought back when he'd commented on Blackburn's superior shooting skills. Yes, Blackburn had had a sniper rifle but no one had answered him. Wait, the medic had made a snarky comment and…. "Christ, they are tight."

"Makes them so good."

"Look what they'll do for one another."

Rally fumed, turned red. "They risked a top operator by requesting he, despite being ill and injured, be sent after them. Spenser was medically grounded." Had he but given it some thought, it might have occurred to him that Hayes hadn't asked for Spenser to come after his team. No, those orders would have come from - gulp - Bravo's Lt. Commander, Eric Blackburn.

And Carey knew that. Oh, he knew what happened: Yes, Five had made plans to keep Spenser on the ground while Bravo flew out; they wanted to observe him for a bit before they pushed for his transfer. Eh, bit late for that now, but whatever. No, they hadn't had anything to do with the failed physical nor the trouble Bravo had run into at the village. And they had nothing to do with the loss of communication. They weren't diabolical. But neither were they stupid. Yes, they'd used the situation to their advantage.

When Rally had reported Five was being sent after Bravo, he and Nickson, already in the air, adjusted their plan yet again. He hadn't calculated Blackburn himself going after his missing team before Five could set out. Or taking Spenser with him. And oh, Carey knew Spenser had gone willingly. Hell, he bet once Spenser was told his team was out of contact and unaccounted for, nothing and no one would have been able to stop him from going after them.

But...but maybe, it just might work in their favor.

"It's likely why they are considered the Navy's top assault team." Carey doodled. "I doubt much arm twisting occurred."

"We've found no one to collaborate what we believe. No evidence either. If Spenser left this base, we should be able to find him on camera and nothing." Nickson mused. "Blackburn sure as hell covered his tracks. As for Spenser, if he was out there, we'll prove it."

"Someone here helped them." Rally huffed. "Did Blackburn leave on camera?"

"He did." Nickson confirmed. He'd shared with Carey but not Rally, that Blackburn was proving to be a bigger obstacle than they'd anticipated.

"Bravo isolates themselves. We've had investigations into Lisa Davis, Stewart Hart and their team Doctor and nothing has shaken loose." Carey continued. "This is our first crack at Hayes. We've got Perry under questioning now. Soon as the doc's let us at Quinn, we'll be all over him." They hadn't been able to shake anything loose from Bravo's support team either, had arranged for them to be 'not here' while they went after Spenser.

Rally shook his head. "He was unconscious when we arrived, doubt he knows anything."

"Doesn't matter. As tight as Bravo is, he knows how they operate." Carey stressed. "They haven't been able to fill him in on what happened. We question him right, he'll slip up. An innocent mistake and Spenser is ours."

"What about Spenser?" Rally asked. "When do we get to talk to him?"

"Working on it. So far, Hayes won't allow it, which means, as far up the chain as Harrington, won't allow it." Carey frowned. "I certainly didn't expect Bravo to have secured barracks or be barred from them. Spenser is in his quarters, confined to bed, according to McCall and unless he grants me entrance, I have to wait for Rear Admiral Harris to over-ride Harrington."

"And the medic?" Rally asked. "He's a prick, by the way."

"Sawyer is elusive. He's with Quinn, we'll get a crack at him later with Reynolds." Nickson relayed. "Hayes is the brains, Perry is the glue. Everyone else follows their lead. Nothing a mere medic can do will get in our way." He sneered.

"Heard Sawyer's a damn good medic." Carey frowned. Nickson was hot and horny to obtain Spenser and while Carey agreed, he didn't think getting cocky and over-confident would do Five any good. "Rumor has it, Bravo is nick-named the Alive Five. And whose job is it, to keep them alive?"

"Can't be so good, he can hide the symptoms and results Spenser has to be sporting after running on foot and perching in a tree for hours." Nickson argued. "No one is. The man is a sniper, he was high. I guarantee it, he was in a tree."

Williams took a seat beside Rally. "He didn't keep the man Spenser replaced alive, now did he?"

Rally nodded. All this over one man who had extraordinary talent with a sniper rifle and an uncanny knack with languages? His platoon leaders must really want him. Rally would certainly welcome him, had to wonder though, what he was getting himself into if Bravo would go to these lengths to keep him.

He wasn't entirely sure he understand this course of action either. How proving Spenser had left base to assist his team automatically granted his transfer to Five was unclear to him. Attacking Hayes' leadership and dragging Bravo's reputation through the mud seemed a bit extreme to him, but not his choice, not his call.

"This should be quick and easy." Nickson cackled as the din in the room began to cease as more screens winked on and various greetings were issued. "Here I come Spenser. No team is that good that we can't prove you left this base. No one!"

Neither Eric nor McCall recognized any of the men leading this meeting. Ranks and names and titles were introduced, but really, meant nothing. The meeting started and immediately hit a wall made of brick, cement, concrete named Jason.

Yeah, sorry Nickson, not so quick and easy, Jason smirked. Not if he had anything to say about it - and he did.

The questioning started, circled, went on, got off-track, went astray, continued until:

Tempers were lost.  
Arguments flared.  
Verbal attacks ran rampant.  
Disagreements ground progress to a halt.

The man heading the meeting – Conklin – directly addressed Jason, again. For the hundredth time.

"Master Chief Hayes, where is the location of Special Warfare Operator Clay Spenser, aka, Bravo Six?"

"In Bravo's barracks." Jason replied calmly. "In his quarters." He decided to answer this time, not divert.

"And he has been there since you and your team departed for your mission to escort a family from a village?"

"As far as I know."

"Were you aware he had not joined Charlie for the flight home?"

"I was not."

"Why's that?"

"I was on a mission. Comm's were out."

"So, you found this out when your Lt. Commander arrived alone, to lend you and your team assistance."

"Yes."

"And at no time did you or anyone on your team see Bravo Six?"

"That's correct."

The interrogation then veered to the mission and turned heated when Jason testily replied he felt Bravo's entire trip to this island, the mission, the incomplete intel on the village was all a set up for Five to take Spenser from Bravo.

"...if I ever find out, Five had anything to do with Jacobs dropping Spenser off the wall, there won't be a place you can hide." Jason replied to one question or another. "Come at me, see where you land."

Nickson blinked. He and his superiors had implemented the plan, but he hadn't expected Bravo to figure it out. So, Hayes really was that smart. Tactical mind and all that.

He was beginning to think they had seriously underestimated Jason Hayes.

And Eric Blackburn. The man lied with ease and no fear. No matter how many different ways Carey came at him, Blackburn easily and confidently answered every question, asked a few of his own, revealed no cracks or weak spots in his story. Had a ready, believable answer no matter what was asked.

"We'll just see how well his story holds up when we can get at Spenser." Nickson murmured smugly to Casey.

Only later, would he realize their mistake when it came to having dismissed Trent Sawyer as a 'mere medic'.

More arguing.  
More back and forth.  
Donuts and coffee arrived.  
Bravo's expenses were discussed.  
Their need for a support team, dog, doc, tracking devices.  
And didn't those questions just piss off Bravo.  
More name calling.  
More thinly veiled threats.  
In Jason's case, outright threats.  
Sandwiches and coffee were served.  
More demands, ultimatums, challenges.  
And it started all over.

If only Carey and Nickson realized, Jason's smirk was because Bravo was in no hurry for this meeting to end.

It was Five's Captain, Harrington's equal, who ultimately brought it to a close.

"We shall now proceed to Bravo's barracks, specifically, Spenser's quarters and question him ourselves."

Harrington who until now, had remained quiet, spoke up without first being asked a question.

"That won't be happening Captain Kneil, Conklin." Harrington sounded bored. "Question him for what? Your questions have been answered to my satisfaction. Bravo is under no obligation and certainly not my orders, to produce Special Warfare Operator Clay Spenser to you, for any reason."

"Captain Harrington, with all due respect," Captain Kneil began. "Five issued a simple request to have Bravo Six accompany them on a job providing language interpretation only and were denied. We then were told…."

"By who?" Harrington pounced, wasn't answered. "Told what by who? I can assure you, Captain Kneil, I'm well aware of the refusal to grant you the services of Bravo Six."

Captain Kneil continued. "That despite orders to return home, Bravo Six ventured into the field to assist Bravo on a mission, that. . . "

"You have in your presence," Harrington interrupted. "Bravo's chain of command who informed you Bravo Six never left team barracks or base. Blackburn commands Bravo. McCall commands the platoon Bravo is in. I command every platoon on the east coast. My superior, Admiral Frey, can be phoned, he commands the entire east coast Naval base." Harrington's tone was icy. "What more do you need? You have no grounds, no reason to demand Master Chief Hayes produce one of his men, who, by military doctors, has been medically grounded."

"Now see here…."

"No, you listen….Clay Spenser was injured in a questionable training mishap on his home base. He failed a required physical, he was ordered home and deemed too ill to fly. When he is feeling better, when Bravo's team doctor deems him fit, you will be able to ask him any pointless questions you want. Your request..." 'dogged pursuit', muttered from Blackburn went ignored, "to obtain the services of Bravo Six, is firmly denied. You have no grounds to pursue or obtain a transfer. This meeting is over."

And Harrington winked out.

Once the screen went dark, McCall pushed back from the table, stood up. "Chief Hayes."

Jason stood, waited. It felt like they'd been in this meeting about 30 minutes, but when he looked at his watch, he nearly sat back down….it had been over three hours.

"You are dismissed. Seek your quarters and remain there until your team is returned to you."

Blackburn and Hayes walked out together. McCall couldn't resist sending Carey and Nickson a smug smirk.

"What, you thought you were the only team with a Captain and Admiral in your pocket?"


	6. Chapter 6

Happy Fall, ya'll...fuzzy socks, warm hoodies, apple cider, candy corn...Season Three a month away...woot!

This started out as two chapters...oops...I don't think anyone minds, it turned into a much longer story!

* * *

Clay, a blanket around his shoulders, managed to stay where Trent had put him, sitting on a bench, shaking and shivering, bottom lip trembling while Trent dried off and dressed. The shower had exhausted him past the point he could hide how badly he trembled. He was barely moving. Coaxing him into extending an arm or raising it over his head had taken time they didn't have and since Clay had plopped onto the floor, Trent had given up and scrubbed Clay clean himself.

"I want you to drink this." Trent coaxed patiently, sat on a bench opposite Clay. "I know it smells, but…."

"Wha's't?" Clay stuttered, teeth chattering, knees bouncing. He shook his head, leaned forward, arms crossed over his stomach, elbow on his thighs. "...ugh..." He moaned, swallowed. "Nuh-uh."

"Gonna hurl?" Trent asked, waited. He set the cup aside, got up and picked up a towel to dry the water dripping from Clay's wet curls. What was it with this kid? Before the shower, he'd been coherent and able to keep up with Trent, but now….now, he was green and shaking and looked ready to vomit everything he'd eaten in the last week.

The towel rubbing felt so good, Clay leaned into the pressure from Trent's hands with a moan.

The shower hadn't gone well. Clay hadn't liked the lukewarm water, had pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around his shins and buried his head. Trent hadn't been able to get Clay back on his feet, hell, it was all he could do to get the kid to uncurl. It had taken Trent time they didn't have to adjust the water so that it was hot enough Clay was content but not too hot it induced hot flashes or irritated his already hot body, courtesy of a stubborn fever.

Yeah, taking care of Clay was often a two-man job.

"It's ginger. It's a natural blood thinner and will reduce the pooling of blood."

"Wh'at'y…?" Clay struggled to focus. "Gin'ale?" He wasn't thirsty, his head was trying to decide whether or not it wanted to kill him, he was cold and really wanted to go lie down. He didn't understand why Trent wouldn't let him. "T'ent, I don't feel….." He trapped his lower lip between his teeth, bit, used the towel over his head to wipe his face.

"You're bruised in quite a few places…..can't let it get worse." Trent explained even though Clay wasn't following a word he was saying. "You're, uh, bruised a bit buddy." He paused. "No, it's not soda."

Once Clay was clean of the mud, muck and grime, Trent had noticed a rash along his cheek, lost it in his beard, but it reappeared on his neck down to his collar bone. His cheek was scratched, bloody, puffy. Not good.

His eye was swollen, his nose and cheek puffy…..oh, he just bet Clay had found poison ivy or oak. Trent sighed, what next? God, please don't let his face bruise.

"Fell outta a tree."

"Yeah."

"Don't want it."

"Tough."

"Getit 'way from me."

"You have to take Bromelain too," Trent ignored him, continued. "And since I couldn't get pineapple, I got pills…..Clay….hey, stay awake!" He reached out to push Clay upright who was listing to his right.

"Bro-me-what?" He was slurring. "Head hurts….lemme…go to bed."

"It aids in the blocking of compounds that cause fluids to pool and swell in the body."

Funny, earlier he'd wanted Trent to make him feel better and now he only wanted the annoying, persistent pain-in-the-ass to go away. "Go 'way."

"Sure. Soon as you take these and drink this." Trent moved a white Styrofoam cup into Clay's line of sight. When all else failed, Trent suspected Clay would buckle to bribery.

"Nilla?" Clay brought his head up, licked his lips. The sudden movement made him groan. "Ow!" Good God, he felt like he'd been run over by a tank, stuffed into a too-small oven, turned to broil.

"You drink the ginger, take these and you can have it." Trent waited. "Deal?" Silence, no nod of agreement. Huh, milkshakes rarely failed to gain cooperation. "Spense?"

Clay would have agreed to anything Trent suggested if he meant he could go lie down, but that wasn't an option presented to him. The cup of water and ginger Trent tried to hand him might as well have been a gallon. He thought maybe if he didn't take it, Trent would give up and let him take the pills with the milkshake.

Right, this was Trent, not Brock.

His head was raised by fingers twisting into his wet curls, the towel now draped around his neck. His chin was held firmly and the cup abused his already dry, split lips. He spit, dribbled and drooled more than he swallowed - God, it tasted awful. Trent was finally satisfied after making Clay drink a third cup, handed him the milkshake.

"I go lie down now?"

"You're a mess." Trent said mildly. "Sweat, spit…what you pretended to drink….ginger is sticky…" He used the ends of the towel around Clay's neck to dab his mouth, wipe his chin and jaw. "If you'd just drank it."

"It's chalky." Clay corrected faintly, winced. "And awful. Leave off."

"Getting a bath. Swallow these and don't you dare chew them." He warned, waited for Clay to swallow the pills, that in Clay's gagged words – were the size of a fucking quarter with a big gulp of milkshake.

"Why...are...we...you, doing this?"

"Do you want a transfer out to the west coast? Become Five-Nine? Run under some dude named Rally?" Trent considered clothes. Was it worth it, making Clay get dressed after his bath? He was sure Davis had sent something for Clay to wear. "Leave us? Fuck up everything Jason has worked for?"

"No." What the hell was the medic babbling about? What had Jason worked for Clay was about to fuck up? "What?"

"Tell me now," Trent paused. He'd never, not once, ever considered Clay might want to go or would agree to go to avoid putting everyone through the shit of fighting to keep him. "Hey!"

"What?"

"Doc hung himself out to dry, Davis and Stewie walked the plank. Blackburn risked his entire career. Jason's gonna go all Rambo on someone soon, not even Ray's gonna be able to reel him in. So, if you want to go, tell me now so I can put a stop to what they are doing."

Clay's eyes were wide, his bottom lip trembled, his jaw quivered. He shook his head. "I don't...no." He said firmly, every ache and pain and bruise forgotten. "No, I don't want to go, I don't want a transfer. I want..." He sat up straight, shook the blanket from his shoulders. "I'm staying. Not leaving. What do I have to do?"

"No one knows you left this base. No one can know. Do you understand? You answer whatever questions they ask you."

"Who? Who's they?"

"Blackburn will be with them when they come to get you. Just look at him, say as little as possible. They have no proof, they're fishing and you can't give them anything to pounce on."

"Okay," he paused. "Let me go lie down, clear my head and..."

"You can't. Not yet. You can't look like you ran through the jungle, climbed a tree and you know, hunkered down for a couple hours."

"But it's what I did."

"No, it's not." Trent tweaked an ear. "You slept, went swimming, worked out, stayed in our barracks. You got me?"

"Yeah, yeah. I do."

Trent wondered if the medication Doc had given Clay for nausea, and the shot he'd just given the kid were interacting wrong. Shouldn't be an issue, but this was Clay and he was running a fever and groggy for no apparent reason. This wasn't simple exhaustion. The kid was fighting to follow what Trent was saying and it was obvious it was a difficult struggle.

"Sonny okay?" He got out when he coughed and gagged and thumped his chest until the damn pills went down his throat. Nope, still felt stuck. He closed his eyes, listed sideways. When Trent didn't try to stop him, Clay went down on his shoulder, twisted his hips, slung a foot over and laid on his back, feet on the floor, either side of the bench.

Trent took the milkshake back, adjusted the bendy straw, put it in Clay's good hand so he could drink lying down. "He's fine." He refrained from rolling his eyes over the question Clay had asked six times already. "Kinda hard to tell where you're bruised and not swollen or swollen and not bruised…so I'm gonna give you a bath, sponge you down with vinegar and warm water."

"Can I see him?"

"No."

Clay blinked at the harsh tone denying him what he felt was a simple request then frowned…

"Wait, what? You're gonna...?" Clay tilted his head up, certain his ears were confused translating Trent's words to syllables he could understand. "Do...what?" It was the fever, yeah. The fever must be the reason he felt so hot, yet shivered. The reason his ears certainly weren't hearing correctly.

Wow, words could be lethal. Stewie was at the sink, had returned with everything on the list - so said Davis - Trent had wanted and was now mashing roots and leaves of some herb or another in a bowel. If Clay ever used that tone of voice with him, he'd take to his heels and run away. Far away. Far, far away. The man was a trained killer who blew the heads off people for a living – all while cracking jokes.

"Vinegar has many uses," Trent was explaining. "It increases blood flow near the skin's surface to help dissipate the pooled blood. Then, I'll rub you down with a menthol lotion and finally, on the bruises that are swollen – 'cause only you would get swollen bruises – I'll apply the comfrey compress Stewie is making. Comfrey contains compounds that reduces swelling and promotes the rapid growth of new cells."

Stewie shook his head. Sounded like Trent was reading straight out of a medical text book. Yeah, like Clay was hearing a word Trent was saying.

"He even understand you?" Stewie asked. "Why bother?"

"Because I don't want to startle him or make him think he has to fight me." Trent answered. "Better to explain what you're doing to him than risk setting him off."

"And you know that, how?"

"Experience." He tapped Clay on his knee. "You can't look like you fell outta a tree."

Clay held the milkshake in the hand of his sore shoulder, grabbed Trent's wrist in a brutal grip with his good one, eyes wide in horror. "What the _hell_ is wrong with _you_?" He demanded hoarsely. "You. Are. Not. Going. To. Bathe. Or. Rub. Or. Sponge. Me. Or. Apply. Anything. Anywhere. Or. I. Will…..."

"We're doing this so we can keep you." Trent said simply, shook his arm free. "You didn't care when I gave you a shower, but now, you're gonna kick up a fuss, I say I'm gonna give you a bath? Drink your milkshake." He teased, easily ducked the wide-handed slap Clay lashed out with.

"Huh?" He slurred.

Trent stood up, patted Clay's head with a patronizing, condescending pat and snatched his hand away before Clay could grab it, hold it and bite.

Clay relaxed, found the straw with his tongue. The thick, cold, ice cream felt good against his raw throat and he decided to ignore what Trent was doing – going to do – and enjoy the creamy treat. God, please let it stay down. He hadn't forgotten his recent bout of upchucking all over the floor that had left his stomach muscles aching and his throat burning.

Lord, he was hot. And he didn't feel so good, achy, sore, uncomfortable, but safe. He felt safe. He rolled his head until Trent was in sight, yeah, all was good.

He drifted, creamy milkshake bubbling on his lips and dribbling down his chin. He lazily chased it with his tongue, hunched his shoulder to wipe what his tongue couldn't reach on the towel still around his neck.

Swelling! Ha, where?! And what bruises? Show him _one_ bruise…..well….he frowned. Okay, his hip, falling out of a tree would do that. His ear was infected, but bruised? Nah! You couldn't _bruise_ your ear! Could you? And it most certainly was not swollen! Er, right? Maybe it was.

He sucked and sipped and swallowed more milkshake, trying to quell his rising panic and not shout like a little girl crying for her mother so Trent would come running. _Keep him?_ Yeah, he didn't succeed.

He spit, feet flailing, milkshake lost.

"TRENT!" Clay fought the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, twisted over his legs and the blanket won. He couldn't kick his feet free, it twisted tighter around his legs and the fingers and arms it had sprouted wrapped around him and held him tight. "TRENT!" Panic, oh-good-going, Clay. Yeah, flip out, that'll help. "Trent!"

"Hey, hey, hey." Stewie moved closer. "Hey now."

Clay wavered between pouting and scowling. Dammit, he wanted Trent. He'd been _right there_, just a second ago. "TRENT!"

"Hey, hey, pipe down. He'll be right back."

"What'r you doin' here?" Clay was finally sitting up, feet on the floor. "What'm I doin' here?" He looked around. "Who'r'u?" Indulging in a fit of temper, he tugged the wet towel from around his neck, threw it.

"Now, now, just calm down." Stewie made a motion with his hands, palms to the floor. "Everything's good. 'Trent'll be right back then we'll get you in the tub…."

"I ain't taking no bath and someone had better tell me what the fuck's going on or I'll start bouncing heads off walls until someone does."

Stewie gulped, took a step back and swallowed repeatedly. It was no use; the lump remained lodged in this throat. How come Clay had been all dopey/mopey with Trent but with Stewie, he was lucid and coherent and full of threats? It wouldn't be Trent's head being bounced off a wall. Nope. Nuh-uhn, not Trent's.

Sure, let the medic be around and the Bravo's youngest would succumb to the effects of medication and Trent's knowledge and authority, be manhandled and manipulated but lordy-lo, let him be alone and waa-laa! He was all bright-eyed and clear-headed, ready to take on anyone who stood in his way of getting answers.

"He went to get you some liquid Tylenol. He has everything needed for the swelling and the bruising but he didn't expect you to run a fever."

"What fever?"

"Yours."

"I'm not running a fever!" Clay put – smacked – his palm to his forehead. Hit himself harder than expected, left a red mark. "Am I?" Ow, now he had a headache. Or maybe he'd had a headache and just now brought attention to it.

"Yeah, dude…you are."

Clay swung his left leg over the bench, planted both feet firmly on the floor, stood up, swayed, and promptly planted his ass on the floor. "DAMMIT!"

"You're good." Stewie assured him. "Why don't you just stay….."

"Where the hell is everyone?" Clay asked crossly. "No one is giving me a fucking _bubble bath_ or sponging me down with vinegar and covering me with compresses." He turned onto his knees, pushed off the floor with his good arm, gained his feet and supported his weight with a palm against the wall. Where he thought he could go unaided or what he thought he was going to do, Stewie was curious to find out.

"Yeah, I am." Neither had heard Trent come in but there he was, reaching for Clay who pushed off the wall, arm extended to ward him off. "What the hell is he doing up? I told you to keep him quiet and laying down." He smacked Clay's hand down, shooting Stewie a look that spoke volumes of what he thought about Stewie allowing Clay to get up.

Right, Stewie snorted, like he had any control over Clay's thoughts and/or movements. Right back atcha Trent ole boy! I don't see you having much success putting him where you want him either.

Clay protested Trent's attempts to grab him and a feminine slap-fight ensued. Stewie stood, watching and grinning, bets on Trent. The slap-fest lasted longer than Stewie would have thought; Clay one-handed, Trent taking most of the slaps to avoid accidentally causing Clay any more pain – however slight. It ended when Clay lost his balance and ended up in Trent's arms who none-to-gently started to steer him towards the hot tub.

"No use fighting me Clay." Trent told him. "I don't need you awake to toss you in the tub or to get you outta it."

"Might be better if you were unconscious." Stewie added helpfully. "And I'm here to help Trent."

Identical looks of doom were thrown his way and he made the motion of zipping his lips, turning the key and tossing it away. Yeah sure, these team members fought one another until they had a reason to unite and face an opponent together.

Tired, sore, in pain, dazed and confused, Clay allowed Trent's hug from behind, his arms tight around Clay's torso but somehow still gentle and waddle-walk him to the tub. He limped, gimped and hobbled, muscles still stiff and sore, content to simply follow Trent's forward motion until he tightened his hug, bent his knees and lifted Clay off his feet.

"Hey," Ray breezed in. "I'm here. What we got?" He rolled his sleeves up, went down on his knees next to the tub. "Awkward." He mused, judging the height of the hot tub. "You need help? Okay, we got this." He stood up. "Brock will stall as long as he can. They're with Sonny now, Doc's with him."

"Bad?" Trent asked, let Ray take Clay's feet.

"No. Just a lot of questions. I'll fill you in while we….." He paused. "What are we doing?"

Clay resisted only when Trent attempted to deposit him in the tub of barely warm water. He was sick and tired over the lack of hot water. These lukewarm showers and baths always left him shivering, feeling damp and…what the hell – JESUS CHRIST - yes-indeedy sweetie, foamy, smelly….._bubbles. _

"What we have to, to keep him."

Ray nodded, ducked when splashed in the face with water from a flailing foot. "Why a bath he doesn't want? Looks like he's had a shower."

"That was to get him clean."

"He with it?"

"In and out. Jason still holding his own?"

"He's gonna be grouchy when he gets out."

"STAY!" Trent ordered in the same tone Brock commanded Cerberus when Clay moved to get out and Clay reacted the same way the dog did, he curled a lip and growled.

Oh hell, no! There was no way in hell Trent was going to give him a bath! No, no, no….just let him try….oh, he might've succeeded in getting Clay in the tub but there was no way, _no way in hell_, Trent would get him to remain there! Soon as Trent's back was turned, he'd crawl out on his belly if he had to…but there was Ray now, and Trent wasn't letting go, went down on his knees next to the tub, maneuvered one limb at a time until at some point every inch of Clay was submerged under water, his head included – his lips sputtered and bubbles fluttered.

"…..why are his eyes so red…"

No amount of coughing, choking, sputtering, cursing, threatening or pleading diverted Trent from his task, even his hair was scrubbed. Trent patiently continued, his hands gentle as he held, moved and positioned Clay as he wanted him. Either Trent had grown four arms or Stewie wielded the wash cloth. Oh no, right, Ray was here. Clay squirmed and a hand rested against his chest and a soft voice told him to put, they were almost done.

"…..you sure this is gonna work?"

The movements and holds and grips were secure and steady, sure in what they were doing…..no fumbling or shaking - neither rough nor harsh – and overly familiar. When Clay was allowed to pop his head above water after what had better be his final dunking, he managed to open his eyes and once the soap running down his face was wiped away, Trent's face hovered about on his left, Ray's on his right. No Stewie.

"…dunno Tre'. He isn't looking any better."

Vinegar. He smelled vinegar. Vinegar had an odor, didn't it? It did. He was sure it did. 'Cause, yeah, he'd dyed Easter eggs as a kid. Why didn't he know? Why was he being forced to take - no, given - a bath in vinegar?

"…..hey Davis..."

The grip was firm yet gentle as the cloth see-sawed between his toes, stopped when he jerked or muffled a curse or cry, waited until he relaxed before starting again. The worst over, the cloth moved on: over his hands, between his fingers, up his arms, behind his ears, down his neck, across his shoulders, down his back, under the back of his knees, the crease of elbows and arm pits - gingerly and with a slight degree of difficulty on his left but with dogged determination, nonetheless – his forehead, nose, cheeks, lips - he spit and spluttered at the taste, belly clenching - chin, throat before coming to his clavicle, down his chest, both sides, across his belly and finally stopping.

"….wait, so you're saying….."

Clay forced his eyes opened and glared. His fingers squeezed the wrist of the hand that weilded the cloth so tightly, he stopped its progress. If that touchy-feely jerk dared to go any lower or slide one finger under the elastic of his briefs, the jerk would never regain proper use of that hand. He let Trent get away with a lot no one else would dare try - well, that pretty much went for anyone on his team - but dammit, he had a limit.

Trent caught Ray's eye, grinned. Not even he was brave or stupid enough, depending on how you chose to look at it, to challenge those bright, hard blue eyes that held an edge and conveyed a clear, unspoken message - _iffin' you're fond on those fingers, keep 'em to yourself._

Trent chewed on his lip, contemplated life with a crippled hand and acquiesced without reprimand.

"Aah….here." The cloth was pressed into his hand. No further words needed to be said, intent and directions were conveyed with the transfer of the wash cloth. "Start where I stopped." Clay was ordered. "Every bit of you Clay. If you don't do it, Ray will hold you down and I will." Clay growled and splashed water in Trent's face who took the hint and got to his feet. He backed off and though Clay kept his eyes closed, he was pretty damn sure Trent didn't leave the room.

"…..man, he can bruise, huh."

Hell, he didn't even leave the side of the tub. Neither did Ray.

Trent's action and motions no longer 'hectic', Clay found both his attention and his strength waning. He wanted to stand and remove his briefs but the thought of standing unassisted curdled his stomach, so he pulled his knees to his chest and squiggled out of them one-handed.

….why's he all swollen? Hell, look at it his eye. Not normal, right?"

The normally mundane task of simply washing left him exhausted, his hands shaking. He managed to finish washing to Trent's satisfaction, and finally, the humiliating bath was over. Clay was lifted out of the tub, set on his feet, told to stand still, toweled off and ordered to raise his right arm over his head and not move. The towel was wrapped around his hips, the end tucked so it would stay.

He didn't fight the hands that settled on either side of his rib-cage to help give him balance or offer a protest until his left arm was taken and carefully, gently, pulled away from his side. Shushing in a gentle, patient tone was enough for him to allow the manipulation…..even if it hurt.

He thought he voiced a question about where the rest of the team was, but if he did, he went ignored. He heard murmuring, muffled voices. His nose twitched at the scent enveloping him, face scrunching up as he fought not to sneeze. A sneeze would likely knock him off his feet and Trent would yell at him if he fell over.

His chin was held, his face tilted, a thumb held his eyelashes against his cheek and a cool gel was rubbed on his eyelids, _his freaking eyelids_, first one, then the other. His nose, lips, chin, ears – his left caressed at his whimper of distress – jaw and neck.

"You thirsty?" He was offered water but when he declined with a shake of his head, the cup was withdrawn.

He tried to catch his breath. He'd yet to work through what he'd just been subjected to and they came at him with a sopping wet sponge that ghosted every inch of skin that was bruised and/or swollen.

"Arm out."

The water was barely warm, the sponge coarse, the touch gentle and though the procedure didn't cause him any pain, it did at times tickle, making him squirm. All he could do was wonder if perhaps it wasn't washing off all the gel they'd just rubbed and smeared all over him.

Finally, Trent appeared to tire of repeatedly holding the sponge against his ear, cheek, neck, shoulder, arm, wrist, belly, and Clay sighed in relief, muscles relaxing as tension eased off. His head felt heavy, too heavy to hold up and his chin kept bumping his chest – they were rubbing in more gel! This time though, it was only where the sponge had touched him.

"…..your own good…." Trent was saying. "…want you to go…..or taken…."

He hadn't been taken. Not this time anyway. He hadn't been lost or missing, so what the hell was Trent going on about?

"Almost done, then you can get some sleep." The schnick of a cap, a hand on his shoulder, fingers on his ear…..some kind of lotion…cool…..oh Bengay or some such menthol rub.

"Gotta get dressed." Trent set a folded long-sleeved shirt and pair of linen draw-string pants on the bench next to Clay's hip. "You need help?"

"No." He mumbled, complained a bit.

"What's that?"

"Why can't I just go to bed?"

"Put your pants on." Trent sighed. He so didn't need an attitude right now. And how many times did he have to explain the situation? Clay picked up the pants, shook them out one-handed, stuffed a foot through the waist, found a leg. "The team from the west coast is raising a fit about where you were when we were trapped out in the field. Blackburn spun a web, we're trying to keep it intact."

"Blackburn in trouble?" Each foot finally in the proper leg, he left the pants at his knees, fumbled with the shirt.

"No, you are."

Clay's eyes widened. "Me?" He gasped, hand going to his throat. "Wh't'd'I'do?"

"Failed your physical, were ordered home, didn't go, came after us." Trent said brusquely. "Five is using that as grounds to request – demand – your transfer to their team."

"Trans…do what now?" He swallowed, trying to find the hole for his head on the t-shirt he was trying to pull on one handed. "Can…they? Do that?!"

"They're sure as hell trying."

He gave up on the shirt, pressed his palm to his fabric-covered forehead. He tried to keep up, he did, but it was all just beyond him.

Trent reached to help Clay with the t-shirt, worked his sore arm through the sleeve then straightened the material until his head popped through the opening. "Gimme your other hand."

Clay tried, but for whatever reason, when he raised his arm over his head, his muscles locked and he hunched over with a groan.

"Was…Ray…here?"

"For a bit. Davis came to get him." Trent stretched the t-shirt, was able to get Clay's hand through the sleeve without making his raise his arm. Great. Now the kid didn't want to raise either arm.

"Why?"

"Brock's being questioned and they want someone with Sonny."

"Sonny's okay?" Clay asked alarmed.

"Not content to stay in the infirmary." Trent put an arm around his shoulders. "Come on, get up. Walk it off, push through it." His phone rang, Doc checking in, would be by in a bit, had a muscle relaxant they could try, might ease the stiffness and soreness. "Just Doc." He returned the phone to his pocket.

"Sonny?"

"He wants to be with you." Trent pulled Clay to his feet. "Feel dizzy? Don't wanna fall over, do you?"

"Yeah." Sweat made him slick. If he hadn't been wearing a shirt, Trent's arm would have slid off. "I gotta lie down."

"Okay, pull your pants up, your pants…no…that's your shirt….these," He rolled his eyes, tugged on the waist. "….that's it." Trent huffed. "Come on. No, hey, they have a string…tie them." He slapped at Clay's hands that did nothing but be in his way. "You have to tie….they'll fall down….yeah, well, blame Davis." He snapped when Clay whined.

"Got him okay?" Stewie asked. He waited at the door, arms full of bags and boxes.

"Yeah." Trent tossed the towel as Clay finally pulled the pants up to his hips, tried to sit down. "STAND UP!" He tied the strings, took hold of Clay by his good arm and led him from the showers.


	7. Chapter 7

So glad you all enjoy my dabbling!

Know what's great about fan-fiction?  
It's fiction.  
Written by a fan.  
Who is most likely, an amateur.  
With an active imagination.  
It doesn't need to be 'true to life'.  
Accuracy is great, but okay if off a bit.  
It's not meant to be 'instructual'.  
So, my normal disclaimer - medical inaccuracies may abound!

* * *

Jason sat slouched in chair in McCall's quarters while Blackburn talked to Harrington via a land-line phone. McCall offered his Chief coffee but Jason declined with a shake of his head. He couldn't stop fidgeting, fingers tapping a rhythm on the arm of the chair, left leg stretching out, then pulling back. His right leg continued to jounce, toes balanced on the floor, no matter how many times he tried to stop it.

Yeah, like he needed caffeine.

This 'over-night' stop along their way to Malaysia had turned into several days with no end in sight and when Bravo finally left, it may well be without Clay. They'd been manipulated and played and Five wasn't going to get away with it. He'd asked Mandy to get on it. He was willing to give Beau and Charlie the benefit of the doubt, most of Delta as well, but not Jacobs. Oh, he was going to nail that punk's ass to the wall.

Trent didn't think anyone on the medical staff at this base was involved. Clay failing a physical and being sent home hadn't been part of any plan implemented by Five but someone, somewhere, was guilty of passing on Clay's medical history. Or at least part of it. What was in his 'public' file anyway. The one Doc kept on paper, hadn't been accessed.

Someone connected to Delta, was Jason's guess. Mandy was on that as well, felt she had a lead on Jacobs' girlfriend who worked in records. No, it wasn't part of her job and despite Clay's reluctance to get to know Mandy better, she'd do whatever she could to help Bravo in any way possible. Yeah, she was that close to Jason.

What Jason really wanted to know was how Five had scrambled so quickly to adapt their plan after they thought Clay had been sent home after the failed physical, then again when they somehow learned Eric hadn't made him go. Hell, he wanted to know what their complete line of attack had been before they'd had to scramble.

"...on our side." McCall finished, waited for Jason to say something, but Bravo's Chief had no idea what McCall had even been talking about, so he asked instead:

"How long do you think we have until Kneil gets permission to get in our barracks?"

"Couple hours," McCall said. "Putting them off as long as we can, but yeah, they're gonna get in. Enough time?"

"Gonna hafta be."

"Any idea what your medic is up to?"

"Some." Like both a shower and a bath, neither of which, according to Ray, Clay had been happy about. Eric had said Clay wouldn't be examined by doctors, so Jason wasn't sure why Trent had made the kid take a bath in vinegar, but, whatever.

"You're sure, absolutely sure, Spenser won't want a transfer?"

"On my life." Jason said firmly. "Kid took a while to trust, didn't give us his loyalty easily, but he's attached now. He won't want to leave." _I'll damn well kick his fucking ass, he ever even __thinks__ about it_.

McCall nodded, eyed Jason. He was always scolding Blackburn for being too close to this team but he was beginning to understand why his Lt. Commander was either unable or unwilling to keep a respectable distance. These men were close, they cared, they knew one another, each one mattered to the other.

It was, in a way, unusual among these ranks. Sure, elite teams trusted one another on the job, on a mission, during deployment, but in something like this? Not likely and not blindly. And what was 'this' anyway? No other team in the history of the Navy had ever gone through the shit Bravo dealt with.

"I've had my people digging, apparently Carey has a history of going after whoever he thinks will complete his team, in his eyes, to make it the Navy's best. Until Spenser, no one knew the advantage of having an operator good with languages."

"He doesn't know Clay." Jason muttered. "He's a hell of a lot of work." He paused. "How the hell does anyone on the west coast know about his abilities with languages?" Clay's unusual talent with languages was among the least of the reasons Bravo was determined to keep him.

"Five seems to know an awful lot about Bravo." McCall frowned. "Too much. I'm on that too."

Jason's phone buzzed. He looked down where it sat idle on his thigh. A text from Sonny asking for permission for the 10th time to be allowed to return to their quarters so he could see Clay and for the 10th time, Jason replied, NO!

"You took the mantle of best Navy assault team away from them." McCall reached for a bottle of bourbon, splashed a generous amount into three mugs, added coffee. "So, he's pissed at you, your team and Spenser has some serious abilities and talents. I can see why any team would be happy to have him." Now he paused, eyes narrowed. "And until you, no one has ever refused, let alone, fought a transfer to Five."

And to throw in more confusion to the mix, it wasn't Spenser fighting the transfer, it was Bravo.

Jason rubbed a hand over his face. This time he took the offer of coffee. "Clay isn't the only reason we're so damn good." He sighed. "I'm tired, I'm pissed, my mind's on Spenser. Quinn's up my ass, the toxic terrors are gonna blow, and I've no idea what the hell Ray's up to, but when I'm thinking clearly, shit's gonna hit the fan. To come after my team because we're 'labeled' better than you? That's some fucked up shit and ain't gonna happen again." He levelled McCall with a look. "No matter who we find out was involved."

McCall nodded his agreement, looked at Blackburn for a definition of toxic terrors.

"Sawyer and Reynolds." Blackburn mouthed. "Right, got it, yup. Thanks." He hung up, took the laced coffee. "They're finishing up with Brock. Had a go at Sonny, but he's a drugged-up ass." He grinned. "Ray went to sit with him, he doesn't want to stay in the infirmary."

Jason snorted, waved his phone. Yeah, he knew. He should have thought to send Ray to sit with Sonny, but yeah, his mind was elsewhere. McCall raised an eyebrow in question, Jason shrugged. "Our first deployment, I asked Sonny to look out for the kid."

"That was over a year ago."

"My guys listen." Jason allowed a tired grin. "I never told him to stop."

"They're asking for Trent, so I'm gonna hafta send him." Eric said. "Go be with Clay."

Jason stood up. "I want a word with Trent before he debriefs."

He wasn't asking for permission, he was asking whether or not Blackburn could arrange it.

"Then go see Quinn." Eric waved him on.

"Toxic terrors?" McCall asked Eric once Jason had left. "Those two?" He sounded doubtful. "Quinn and Spenser, I could see, but...those two?"

Eric sighed. "Back them into a corner, see who's still standing when they get out."

***000***

"Hey, before you sleep," Trent wouldn't let Clay from lie down so he slumped with his elbow on the pillow, shoulder in the corner, back against the wall - a position that made it difficult for Trent to easily gain access to him. "Want you to drink this. Put your sling back on."

Clay didn't move, didn't answer.

Trent tried to hand him a cup of hot tea, Clay refused the offer but Trent was persistent. The medic didn't need Clay to hold the mug and drink it on his own, he was forceful and once again, Clay drank something he did not want. It tasted awful, left fuzz on his tongue, made his lips feel twice their normal size. He tried to drink it without gagging, but it was vile. So vile, tears stung his eyes over his coughing fit.

"For Christ Sake Clay, it's tea. Willow bark tea. Quit carrying on like I'm feeding you poison." Trent said exasperated. "People drink it all the time. Hell, you've had it before."

"Didn't taste…this bad." Clay used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. Stewie tossed him a damp rag so he wouldn't use his sleeve. He tried, really tried, not to pant, but he couldn't force his lips to touch, his tongue was stuck to his bottom lip so yeah, he panted. Probably resembled Cerberus.

Without moving his head, he flicked his eyes over to Brock's bunk where Cerberus doggy-grinned at him, licked his chops. Okay, yeah, no, his tongue wasn't that long.

"Davis couldn't find any honey." Trent, losing patience, grabbed Clay's chin. Only loosened his grip when the kid winced and went 'ow'.

Clay, in his exhausted, confused, addled, feverish state, refused to be reasonable and by the time Trent was done wrangling him into drinking an entire mug of tea, rubbed his back while he choked on it, the medic wore the first two mugs of tea.

"Sit still." Trent unscrewed the cap from a plain brown bottle, no label, withdrew a small brush. "Any idea where you might've got this rash from?" He itched Clay's beard for him. "Goes down your neck. Might sting a bit."

"Uh..." His nose wrinkled as Clay tried to remember. "There was shit all over the tree...YOW!" Sting? Clay jumped with a yowl, unprepared for the sharp burn as Trent painted the scrapes and scratches on his cheek, nose, neck.

"CHRIST!" He pulled back, drew away, raised a hand to ward Trent off. "That! _Shit!_ Burns!"

"Gimme your hands."

"Get that shit away from me!" His face was on fire but Trent refused to let him palm his cheeks or rub his neck, held his hands until Clay stopped trying. He blinked at tears, hissed, whimpered, when Trent dabbed the liquid from the bottle, via the brush, on his split and raw knuckles.

"Put this on." Trent ignored the wet eyes, took the comfrey leaves and paste Stewie had made, wrapped them in square linen cloths to make a poultice, added water, applied them to wherever Clay was most bruised or swollen. "Keep these on." His phone buzzed, he read the text from Blackburn. "Make new and reapply every 15 minutes." Trent told Stewie, straightening up and cracking his back. "He moves…..sit on him. Don't startle him, don't make any sudden moves. He tends to, uh, be cranky when he's cross."

"Wait….what?" Stewie stuttered. "What does that mean?" He swallowed, he'd heard the jokes and conversations between Davis and Blackburn about Spenser acting out and while he'd been amused then, he wasn't finding it so funny now. "You're leaving? You can't do that! Doesn't he get violent with people he doesn't know?"

"Nah," Trent waved him off. "He knows you."

"You're not going to leave me alone with him, are you?" He sounded close to panic. "Uh, hey? Where are you going?" He'd just witnessed Clay rebelling and Trent forcefully putting him down simply to drink tea! Stewie didn't stand a chance, Clay acted out against him.

"My turn to debrief. Doc should be over soon with some meds." Trent promised with a grin over Stewie's obvious nervousness. "I'm coming back."

"When? Will he sleep. Do we have to do this again?" Stewie anxiously asked.

"Be great, you get him to drink more ginger." Trent tucked Clay's foot under the blanket. "Pray all's good. We've 'bout run out of time."

Stewie nodded, relaxed. Trent wasn't such a bad dude after all. The medic might be all gruff and tough and he might bite, but his teeth didn't break skin. He could handle packing weeds into cloth and adding water. He frowned. Wait? Get Clay to drink more water with ginger? He gulped. What about tea?

"You watch him." Trent ordered, finger poking Stewie in the chest. "You let him fall outta bed, I will shoot both your knee caps." He snapped his fingers, called the dog to go with him. Cerb might take it in his head to prevent Stewie from getting anywhere near Clay and he didn't want that to happen. "Don't leave him alone."

Stewie jumped when the door slammed. So much for a relationship with Trent.

()()()

Stewie pulled out the chair on wheels from the desk, parked it near the door that led outside, took a seat. He wanted as much distance between him and the man in the bed across the room as possible. He was betting, this close to the door, he'd be able to make it outside, screaming like a girl, before Clay could get out of bed and grab him.

He gulped...yeah, probably a bet he'd lose. But Trent had said watch him and watch him, Stewie would. The part about not letting him fall out of bed, well, he'd take his chances. If...IF...that were to happen, he'd beg a transfer to the ends of the earth before Trent could get a hold of him or go AWOL.

So, he sat and waited. Looked at his watch and waited. Picked up a magazine on guns, read a paragraph, glanced up to make sure Clay remained in bed, read another paragraph and repeated. And he waited. And he watched.

Clay stirred, the silence around him the first clue something was wrong. Someone was always snoring or the dog played or someone had music on, was talking to someone or was watching TV or a movie on a tablet or a phone rang with alerts and text messages. It was never quiet.

The fact that it was and no one moved, not even the dog snored, alerted Clay something wasn't right.

Stewie finished the article, turned the page, looked up, dropped the magazine, scrambled out of the chair. He stood behind it, ready to shove it forward and flee should Clay, who was sitting up, slumped against the wall, get out of bed and come at him.

"Where is everyone?" Clay asked, itched his beard, finger-combed his matted hair. They left him with this dude? Seriously, the man was all bones and long-limbs, Clay could snap him like a twig. It was little wonder he'd been assigned to supply duty. Clay doubted the man could lift, left alone carry, the weapons Sonny favored. And why was he even thinking he'd been left with anyone? What the hell was that all about?

"Uh..." Stewie licked his lips nervously. "Jason and Blackburn are in a meeting with upper brass. Ray is being debriefed. Brock's waiting his turn. Sonny's in the infirmary. Davis is burning your clothes and putting back every thing you took with you. Doc's with Sonny and Trent was told to report for his debriefing."

"Sonny okay?"

"He's gonna be fine." Stewie was pleased to tell him. "Keeping him for observation as a precaution. He's awake and alert and responding."

Clay was quiet, trying to remember what was going on, what he'd been told, what he was supposed to do, why he felt the way he did.

"Something happen?"

"Uh, the west coast team requested you be transferred to their team. Bravo's fighting it for you." Stewie left the safety of the chair and close proximity of the door, to approach the table where Trent had supplies stacked and laid out. "Five dug in pretty deep. Blackburn went to Harrington."

"My team is what?" Clay asked slowly, look lethal, tone deadly. "Say that again?" All of a sudden, he was clear-headed and alert. "Harrington's involved?"

Stewie stopped what he was doing, looked up, gulped. Where was the fuzzy-headed, addled, sick dude who couldn't fight his way out of a bathtub? Where was the lazy, uncooperative, confused dude who had to be forced to drink tea? It dawned on Stewie that perhaps Clay simply let Trent do whatever he wanted to because it wasn't worth fighting the medic who, at any time, could call back up, have him held down and force him to submit. 'Cause the 'dude' sitting in his bunk, feverish, itching, arm in a sling, slumped against the wall? Yeah, he certainly looked like he was capable of not doing anything he didn't want to do.

"Um, sure, okay." Stewie nodded. "Let me replace those comfrey compresses. Want some Jell-O? It's purple, had a devil of a time finding it."

"Start at the beginning." Clay ordered, not moving from what had to be an uncomfortable position. "Blackburn and I went after them, everyone said Sonny's gonna be okay, they all came back to base. What are they fighting now?" He scowled. Purple Jell-O? No, he didn't want any damn Jell-O! Jell-O was lame! Who in the hell in their right mind wanted to eat Jell-O? For Christ sake, if anyone thought he was going to eat purple...

Grape was purple.

And his stomach ached. It didn't hurt. It ached. Maybe he was hungry.

"Gimme a spoon."

Stewie had a chore to do dictated to him by Trent and a story to tell while he did it, so he did both.

"Trent did what?" Clay stared when Stewie shared Trent had gotten in the shower with him, then given him a bath.

"So, you don't remember the bath either?"

"Vinegar." Clay said slowly. He remembered the smell, but not the bath. The memory tickled teasingly but remained just out of reach. He sat patiently, ate grape Jell-O while Stewie applied fresh comfrey compresses, offered him ice packs for wherever he felt the most pain, a heating pad for his aching hip, dabbed some kind of lotion or oil and menthol rub on the worst bruises and calamine lotion on the rash in his beard and on his neck.

"You come near me with that fiery spit of Satan, you're gonna lose a hand." Clay growled when Stewie picked up the brown bottle. Oh yes, Clay sure as hell remembered that bottle.

Stewie slowly set it back down. He didn't know what it was, just knew what Trent had done with it. Clay was being so cooperative with whatever else Stewie applied or offered or did, he wasn't about to push his luck.

When Stewie explained why Trent had made him drink ginger water and willow bark tea, even if he didn't remember it, he asked for both, consumed them without complaint.

Just when Stewie thought Clay was coherent and with it and lucid, the sniper listed sideways in the middle of some explanation or another, slumped down and was either passed out or asleep.

***000***

"Hey." Jason entered Bravo's quarters, closed the door quietly. "He asleep?"

Stewie, making more comfrey compresses, looked up, put a finger to his lips to shush who had just came in, trembled when he realized who he was shushing. He squared his shoulders and shook off his discomfit. It he was going to be working with this team, he couldn't quiver whenever the boss addressed him.

Jason grinned over the young man's nervousness. Both Davis and Mandy had vetted and dug into Stewart Hart's background, history and career. He was no threat to them, hadn't been the source of any information regarding or about Bravo being leaked. He'd hung in there, done whatever had been asked of him. Christ, he was what, 19? No more than 21. Davis said he was a good doobie and Jason accepted that. He'd silently withstood Bravo's temper tantrum over the supplies for their trip to Malaysia, bore up under the pressure of making everyone happy, hadn't fled when ordered to assist Trent with Clay.

"He doesn't look too bad." Jason commented. Anyone who knew Clay well would know the signs of distress; pain, discomfort, illness. But to anyone else, they'd see a sleepy dude with a bum shoulder. So yeah, Trent had done a great job.

"Trent's worried about the rash." Stewie said. "His beard hides most of it."

"Mmm."

"I'm going to..." He cleared his throat. "Are you staying? I need more comfrey. Trent said not to leave him alone."

"Go." Jason waved him on. "Get yourself something to eat, see if Davis needs help with anything." He tossed his cell to Stewie who, after a big of a juggling act, caught it and held it firmly. "Add your number."

Stewie obeyed, handed the phone back. "Can I bring you anything?"

"Ask Davis for something to eat, guess. She knows what I like." He yawned. "What'd Trent say? What should I be doing?"

Bravo's Master Chief was going to obey Trent's orders of; 'watch him and don't let him fall out of bed'? Really? Wow!

So, Stewie told Jason about changing the comfrey compresses, the menthol rub, ice packs, the heating pad, liquid Tylenol, the ginger water, the willow bark tea. Wondered if Clay would give his boss a hard time about drinking something he didn't want. When he left, Jason was pulling Clay onto his back and making him roll over so that he laid in the bunk properly.

Huh. Wow. Yeah, he hadn't dared make any such moves or request. Had thought it best to let Clay sleep undisturbed. Not Jason though, the boss had no problems manhandling Bravo's youngest, make him do what he wanted.

Jason turned on music, sat on the desk chair, files on his lap, watched Bravo's kid fitfully sleep. Trent, his debriefing over, had gone to get something to eat, take a walk, chill out. Jason was more than capable of watching Clay.

He'd expected bruising, stiff muscles, sore joints, maybe some swelling in Clay's injured shoulder, a fever since he'd been running a slight one that Doc had decided was an ear infection when the blood tests had returned inconclusive, but yeah, nothing close to this.

Clay wasn't comfortable or content. Jason kept him on his back, settled him with ice on his shoulder, a heating pad under his hip, a stronger menthol pain relieving gel similar to Bengay but allegedly without the strong odor, generously massaged and rubbed into aching muscles and stiff joints.

Yeah, a guy cramped up, got stiff, sitting in a tree, but good ole Clay had to go and sit in oak moss. And after a consultation with Doc, Trent had come to the conclusion Clay had thrown an allergic reaction to it. Brock had been joking about a fungus being among them, but yeah, a fungus indeed.

His normally, unshakable, unflappable, always-in-control medic hadn't been happy when they'd met at the infirmary to check in on and update Sonny.

_"I DON'T KNOW!" Trent exploded. He was tired of staying calm and keeping it together. Yes, he understood his team depended on him to make everything all right when one of them was hurt or injured or sick. But this was different and it was hard and there were no guarantees. And NO, his failure this time didn't necessarily mean they would all lose Clay again, this time maybe for good, but if he could only prevent any further actions being necessary, this would all be over. He knew they expected him to make it all okay so they could keep Clay, that they would do whatever he said, anything they could do to help, but he wasn't sure it would be enough. "I. **Don't.** Know."_

_Jason was quiet, took the verbal abuse. Trent rarely lost it. Never lost it in front of the other guys on the team. Only ever paced and vented, hands propelling his frantic thoughts, to his boss, who never revealed to anyone when the medic blew up. _

_Trent was often abrupt, brusque, rough, could even be brutal. He lacked patience for whining and complaining, didn't mollycoddle you. If he hurt you to save your life, oh well. He patched you up until he handed you over to a fully staffed medical team. He'd had team leaders before who'd had problems with that. Jason had none. He was well aware of what they put on Trent and as often as he could, as the boss, he did his best to bear the brunt of the burden. So did everyone else and no one would blame Trent, things went south, but that didn't ever make Trent feel any better._

_Certainly not this time._

_Jason wouldn't dare share Trent's brief lapse of confidence with the team. Hell, if Sonny found out about this one, he'd liberate himself from the infirmary, abscond with Clay and hide him until Blackburn could put this whole issue behind them. Sure, that'd go over well._

_"I thought...I assumed, it was...just exhaustion. He was stiff and sore from sitting in the tree. I can work around aching muscles and swollen joints, but...a freaking allergic reaction to tree moss? MOSS! Moss Jason. What are the odds? Huh? He's been through mud and muck and mire and moss and everything else found in the forest and jungles on the face of this earth hundreds of times and this time...__THIS TIME__!...he throws an allergic reaction. I can't get ahead with him."_

_Jason nodded, let his medic rant._

_"He's trusting, does whatever I ask and this time, it may not...just might not be enough."_

_"And you're going to ask him to stand up and face this. And he will, because you, of all of us, are the one asking him to do it. He doesn't want to let you down."_

**"_I _**_**know!**_**"**_ Trent literally hopped. "Just...it might not be enough Jace."_

_Jason winced over the nick-name._

_"I can fight the fever and bruises and swelling, but I don't know what to expect from any reaction he's throwing and it's only a guess that it's tree moss. If that rash spreads..."_

_"You're not alone in this Trent. Just tell us what you need us to do."_

_Trent faced the wall, banged his forehead once, pulled it together. "We're gonna find out just what we mean to him." He said quietly. "He has to fight through this, we can't do it for him. We can make him look presentable, acceptable, but nothing any of us can do, will make him clear-headed and coherent. That's on him."_

He sighed, elbow on his knee, files long-forgotten on the floor, chin cupped in his hand. Well hell, it was Clay, expect the unexpected – hell, the unheard of. This kid….gah….what was it about him that had Bravo so determined to keep him?

He'd never admit it but he'd never have done this, gone through this, for Nate. Though it had never been said or discussed, it was because Nate well knew Brock and Trent were content to 'agree to disagree' with their teammate. And Sonny? Pfft.

But Clay?

Well now, whole other ballgame. The kid was cocky, arrogant, full of shit and….

….shaking with chills. He shivered until his teeth chattered and though Jason couldn't see, his arms and chest remained dotted with goose bumps. He tried tucking a blanket over him, but that caused hot flashes that kept Clay sheened in a heavy sweat.

He adjusted the thermostat on the a/c. It was hot as shit outside and comfortable inside, but even with ceiling fans, Jason just couldn't find a temperature that made Clay content. No matter how many times he adjusted the temperature, the speed on the fans, added a blanket or a removed one; changed the ice packs, wrapped them in a towel, tried them bare against bare skin, took away the heating paid - which he had to put back because Clay threw a fit - talked, rubbed, applied menthol rub, Clay wasn't comfortable. No position offered him relief from muscle cramps, spasms and apparently, itching.

Jason, well trained in basic first aid, called Doc after detecting Clay's heart was racing, his pulse was drumming and the kid was using breathing learned in Lamaze class as he tried to pant through it.

Trent had gone light on pain meds, given the kid liquid Tylenol and willow bark tea in case Doc had to go with something heavier, stronger. Doc, it had been decided, his debriefing over, would remain in the infirmary with Sonny so he wouldn't accidentally give any further ammunition to Five to pounce on. After tut-tutting about the effects on unborn babies by mother's who smoked, he sent someone over with some medication that required Jason to give Clay two shots in his hip.

Yeah, that was Doc's latest crusade...researching whether or not allergies and reactions to medications could be a result of second hand smoke. Eh, least their doc wasn't bored.

Could Jason give shots? Sure. They all could. Did he like to do it? No, no he did not. Least he didn't have to find a vein.

Perhaps it was the medication or maybe, just maybe, all that Clay had wanted was Jason sitting next to the bed, because within ten minutes after the shots had been administered and Jason hadn't wheeled away, Clay was finally quiet and still.

Jason sighed, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. Clay, relaxed among the pillows, a blanket tangled around his legs to his waist, looked all of five years old, hair tousled, free hand curled into a loose fist over his head.

Yeah, it was gonna hurt like hell, Bravo lost their fight to keep this kid from being transferred. And it very well may all be because of a fucking rash.

"Hey, we've done our part, your turn." Jason tugged the blanket from beneath Clay's hip, felt the heat radiating from the kid's skin. "Ain't nothing we won't do, to keep you, but some of this is on you. You're gonna hafta help us out."

Trent had done a damn good job. The kid was clean, most of the visible swelling was gone, what little there was could be explained by some stupid excuse or another. Jason had no idea how Trent had done it, but the rash hadn't spread or grown worse. If anyone looked closely though or had a trained eye, it would be seen. The bruising was beneath clothing that was slightly too big.

Jason rubbed blood-shot, red-rimmed eyes. Would they lose Clay over some allergic reaction to fucking tree moss?

"Hey, how's he doing?" Brock came in. "Ray's still with…." He whistled. "Wow!"

Pale with tension, Jason glared.

Brock knew better than to push. He sat down on Sonny's bunk, the one closest to Clay's, waited.

"Dunno." Jason said finally, tiredly. "Thought he'd be sore from being in the tree for hours. Arm might give him some pain, but…" He paused, shrugged. "Shot him up with antihistamine, mild pain med."

"Take it, he's not really with it?"

Jason shook his head.

"Reaction to meds?"

"Allergy." Jason pulled at his hair. "Tree moss."

Brock's eyebrows went up, became one. "How the hell...you come up with that?"

"The rash. Symptoms." He threw his hands wide. "Doc guessing. Trent brainstorming."

"How much can we pass off on illness and injury?"

"Depends if he can pull it off."

"Shower?"

"Been there."

"Bath?"

"Done that."

"Someone been with him?"

"Yup."

"We good?"

"Depends on the rash."

It was Brock's turn to be quiet. He knew Trent and Doc would have tried everything to get through to Clay and bring him around, make him aware. Hell, Trent probably tried things no one else would have thought of trying.

Clay needed to be awake, alert, able to stand upright and at attention – his shoulder in a sling, of course – and answer questions when whoever was coming for him, came through the door. The kid could fight through pain and illness when he had to. Could bulldoze his way through effects of medications when required...but an allergic reaction to moss he'd never had before?

"See what you can do with him." Jason pushed to his feet. "Gonna check on Trent, make sure he got something to eat, didn't run into anyone from Five." He couldn't stop himself from adjusting the blanket one last time. Palmed the kid's sweaty brow, a lame show of feeling for a fever when what he really wanted to do - and did - was brush the damp bangs off his forehead. "Davis sent some microwave soup, couple ham sandwiches, you're hungry."

"Poke your head in on Ray while you're at it." Brock advised. Jason nodded, left the room. Brock moved the chair Jason had vacated over to the bunk. "Okay you," he began. "Listen up and listen good." He reached out, laid two fingers on Clay's chin, turned his head so he faced Brock. "You hurt, I know that. You don't feel good, I know that too. You're pissed at Delta, and you've'a right to be. But Clay, this time, you gotta do something for us. Trent does a lot for you. No other medic would go through what he does….no, you've never asked him to, but kid, 'less you want a transfer to the west coast, you gotta fight through whatever the hell this is. You hearing me?"

Clay was quiet, still. His eyelids didn't even flicker. Brock played with the blanket.

"Answer anything they ask you, yes or no, that's it. You hear me? Say as little as possible. Blackburn will be with you, dunno if we will be. Look at him, you're unsure, okay?"

Clay twitched, body responding to mounting discontent before his mind acknowledged it. His stomach attacked, turned and flipped, began a march. He swallowed, breaking out in another sweat.

"We've done a lot for you, been through a lot, we consider you ours and Jason has plans for you. We want to keep you, don't even think about saying yes 'cause you think it'll be easier for everyone. You hear me? It's not an option. Get through this for us, okay?"

It was amazing what a person, who couldn't force his body to obey a simple command, could do when faced with lying in their own vomit...again. He flung his entire body to the right, rolling onto his shoulder and hip in time to hang his head off the bed, lost his balance, slid halfway to the floor.

"Hey there." Brock teased. "Going somewhere?" He wondered if Clay had heard him, understood.

Clay tried to pull himself back onto the bed, but his hip and buttock protested and he ended up on the floor with a groan, breath coming in pants, amid ice packs, towels, a heating pad and blankets.

"Lemme 'lone."

"Can't do that."

"Go 'way."

"Not gonna happen."

Clay pushed onto his knees, sat on his heels. His left arm, wrapped and ensconced in a sling that kept it tight to his side, threw his balance off even more. Sure, sure, he could run through a jungle and climb a tree and shoot accurately with detailed precision and now, he couldn't even stand up without help.

And it sucked. This constant, ever present feeling of puking at any moment, sucked.

Brock pushed a trashcan over with his foot, waited to see if Clay was going to be sick.

* * *

This chapter got away from me….sorry!


	8. Chapter 8

"The hell did you eat?" Brock wrinkled his nose, wheeled back as Clay hung his head over the trashcan.

"Dunno." Clay sat back, accepted the offer of a damp rag. "Something purple." He wiped his face, then his mouth, slid off his heels, sat on his hip. "Some bark, I think."

"Gonna need another shower." Brock commented but he didn't think there was time for another one now.

Clay blinked, frowned. There was something about a shower that he wanted to complain about but the memory refused to be captured and he let it go, pushed the trashcan away.

"I..." He swallowed, swiped the back of a sweaty hand across his forehead. "Didn't...there's no mess."

"No." Brock agreed, got to his feet. "You're all sweaty though. You done?" He toed the trashcan and when Clay nodded, picked it up and carried it outside.

By the time he'd emptied it, cleaned it and returned, Clay had managed to crawl back into bed, though he wasn't quite lying down, neither on his back nor his stomach.

"Hey, let's change your shirt." Brock held a long-sleeved Henley in one hand, reached for Clay with the other. "Turn around...no, around...sit up. Turn around and sit up."

Clay obeyed, but he faced the wall rather than Brock, reached out with his hand then let it fall into his lap when he didn't see what he expected to be in front of him. - Brock. "I don't know what's wrong with me." He said slowly, sadly. He felt weak and disoriented.

"Woof!" Cerberus jumped up on to the bed, nudged his nose under Clay's arm and when Clay reached to scratch his ears, gave him a kiss.

"What's this about?" Brock unbuckled the sling, let it fall, began to tug the sweat-soaked shirt up Clay's back.

"What Stewie said," Clay ducked and shimmed his way out of the shirt, let Brock pull it over his head. "And I don't remember either." Good God, he was tired. Every muscle and joint and tendon wanted him to lie down, pull the pillow over his head, go to sleep.

Brock smiled, aware Clay had left out what he didn't want to talk about, but bothered him all the same - being given a shower and bath. By Trent.

Clay frequently had convenient memory lapses when it came to what someone on his team did for him - or when he held onto a sleeve or pant leg or sought comfort in the lap of someone he knew - when he was hurt or sick or medicated. At first, it had been cause for alarm, made his team worry, but then, then Eric had Doc assigned permanently to Bravo - at Jason's urging for a doc of their own, no doubt - and the good-natured Doc had laughed jovially when Ray had tentatively brought to his attention, Bravo's concern. Had claimed Clay could well remember everything he wanted to, but he chose not to because it would force him to face his embarrassment and make him the butt of jokes and humiliation.

Bravo had discussed it one night around a bonfire while the kid slept off yet another close call in an infirmary. Clay had a stubborn streak, could be stupidly obstinate. If teased or made fun of, God knew what he'd take in his head to do, so the team, along with Davis, Mandy and Eric had decided never to call him on it.

Brock didn't know how the hell the kid had made it through as much as he had in the Navy before joining Bravo. Either his friend Brian had had his back since boot camp or Clay's issues and problems hadn't happened back then. Brock found it hard to believe Clay hadn't suffered injuries with whatever team he'd been on, but whatever.

"Doc gave you some meds before you went out and some more when you got back." Brock said, tossed the wet shirt, held a towel. "He thinks you're throwing an allergic reaction to tree moss and the antihistamine shot might've left you befuddled."

"Yeah," Clay used the towel to wipe down. "There was a mud puddle. Fucking bird was huge."

Grinning, Brock took the towel, used it to ruffle dry Clay's hair, wiped his face, didn't correct him. "Arm up."

Just the simple act of changing his shirt - with help - left Clay shaking. Once Brock buckled him back into his sling, settled his arm comfortably with an ice pack, he crawled with his knees, pushed with his hip and soon sat in the middle of the bed, facing Brock.

"It's all hazy...after I got back. I remember falling out of the tree." Clay looked baffled, lost, tired. "I didn't leave any evidence and went radio silent, turned off my tracking devices even though Sonny said I ever did, he'd render me a soprano. I hid from the sky and avoided camera's and MP's and snuck back on base and Brock, that fucking bird bit me."

Brock waited, Clay was winding down, eyes drooping.

"But then, I dunno…I don't know what happened after, uh, that."

"Hey." Brock cupped a hand around the back on Clay's head, pulled him forward, pressed their foreheads together, winced at the sweaty heat and foul breath. "You ain't gotta worry about any of that, you hear? All you gotta do is trust us, okay? We're right here. Do what you do best; fight for us and annoy everyone else. Can you do that?"

Clay nodded, didn't pull away, the touch both reassuring and comforting. Finally though, he listed sideways and Brock let him go, got up. Cerberus circled a time or two, laid down at the foot of the bed. Brock found mouthwash in an open duffel on Sonny's bunk, poured a bit into a plastic cup, told the kid to rinse and spit.

"Get some sleep." Brock patted the pillow, guided Clay down onto his side. "Trent did what he had to, that's all. You gotta know by now, we'd do anything for you, and if keeping you on Bravo, from being transferred, meant Trent needed you clean and not looking like you fell out of a tree, just know he'd do it again."

***000***

Brock, Ray and Trent slept restlessly in their bunks, waiting for the knock on the door signaling the arrival of Captain Kneil with permission to talk to Clay. They still didn't understand what any good upper brass talking to Clay was going to do for Five, but there wasn't any way they could stop it.

Blackburn had told them, that if at any time, Five gained proof Clay had left the base to aid him in the retrieval of Bravo, he would likely be taken into custody and remanded to solidarity confinement within other barracks for disobeying orders. He would remain there until a hearing regarding his future could be conducted, with the outcome most probably being: if Clay agreed to the transfer and Bravo halted all efforts to stop it, all 'charges' and 'allegations' would go away.

If may go that far, it may not. Bravo may or may not, get their kid back. He simply didn't know. All he could say was, it was possible this _might be_ the last time Bravo saw Spenser for a while. This shit show had gone above Harrington and the Captain had had no choice but to allow the questioning of Spenser. If Five weren't involved, weren't pushing, then the usual punishment - which, since Clay had been with his team's Lt. Commander, would have been a severe scolding, not even a slap on the wrist - would have been dealt and this would be over.

So, yeah, everyone was tense and on edge. Tempers were short, moods black, patience non-existent.

Clay was sprawled on his back in his bunk, tangled in a fleece blanket that no matter how many times someone freed and spread over him, ended right back up in a twisted, mangled bunch around his hips. Jason and Eric played cards but Jason's mind was not on the game and they were only playing war. No, every time he laid down a card, his mind wandered to some mission or event or time or job where they'd come close to losing the kid but everything had worked out in their favor, Clay escaping serious, career-ending or life-threatening injuries.

How would he deal, he ran with Five? How would Five handle it? What was their medic like? Would they kick him off? Transfer him out? Give him back? Tell the Navy he wasn't fit to serve?

Eric's cell buzzed with a text, he picked it up, read it, put it back down, flipped a card.

"Randy." He said. "They're on their way. Kniel, Carey, Nickson, Rally, Conklin. McCall has Harrington on Facetime." He ran a hand over his face. "We wake him up?" Eric asked Jason as the other three members of Bravo stirred, sat up. Brock dialed Sonny, brought him and Doc into the conversation via Facetime. Stewie waved hello.

"Nope. Let them do it." Trent said, sat up, swung his feet to the floor. "Are we allowed to stay?"

"We'll soon find out."

The knock came, light and repetitive. So, Lisa had brought them.

Eric opened the door and Lisa entered first.

"Eric." McCall greeted easily, using his first name to let Five know whose side he was firmly on. He held a tablet in each hand. "You know Captain Harrington of course. This is Admiral Frey."

Jason coughed, turned away. Admiral? Really? He saw the stunned amazement on the faces of Five, smirked. Oh, he owed Harrington the most expensive bottle of scotch he could afford. An admiral on their side indeed.

"McCall." Eric stood aside as everyone crowded in.

Conklin also held a tablet that live streamed between the current room and three men in dress uniform on a military base back somewhere back home. Apparently, McCall told them, this trio was a 'committee' who would decide if any further action after questioning Clay should be warranted.

Kneil ordered Bravo to step outside but Frey commanded no such action was necessary as long as Bravo remained quiet and out of the way. The trio nodded their agreement, so Bravo obediently lined up shoulder to shoulder against the door, crossed their arms over their chests, stared.

Eric stood beside McCall.

"We are here to….." Conklin began, then sighed. "Let's just dispense with names and ranks and titles, shall we? Where is he? Let's get on with this."

"He's sleeping." Ray snarked with heavy sarcasm. "He's tired, he's in pain, possible ear infection, he's on medication. What do you do when you don't feel good? Oh, yeah, you sleep."

"Pain?" Rally scoffed. "From what? Sniper perch?"

"Let me dangle you off a 16-foot wall, drop you, see what kind of pain you're in." Trent snarked. Oh, how pissed he'd been when that had happened and now he was grateful it had because Doc had used the 'accident' as the reason why Clay was stiff and sore.

"He's that bad off, he should have remained on your home base." Rally shot back.

Tempers, already short, flared. Insults, name calling, threats passed between the two teams.

"Enough!" Conklin cut in sharply. "Master Chief Rally, have Mr. Spenser join us." He ordered.

Trent motioned everyone out of Clay's direct line of sight; everyone took a unified step left. The kid opened his eyes and saw any of them, he wouldn't react the way Trent wanted him to - the way they all knew he would.

"You don't want to do that." Jason lazily warned, slouched against the wall, he crossed his ankles.

He went ignored.

"You might want to let one of his team wake him up." Lisa advised.

She went ignored.

"...Spenser." Rally slapped a bare foot that 'conveniently' wasn't beneath the blanket.

The response he got was instantaneous and predictable – to Bravo anyway. Clay jerked awake with a growl. He lashed out with a lazy slap and two seconds later, Rally was on the flat on the floor on his back, two hands wrapped around his throat, his legs trapped between Clay's who hooked his feet under Rally's knees, effectively pinning him to the floor.

No one from Bravo moved to intervene. Eric hid his smirk – well, thought he did, Harrington caught it, shook his head.

"BLACKBURN!" Kneil roared as Rally bucked and the two men rolled, Clay now on his back, Rally contained against his chest in some kick-boxing wrestling hold, Clay's arm around Rally's throat, tipping his chin up at an awkward angle. "Gain control of your man!"

No one moved.

"Told you not to do that." Jason sneered

"You did that on purpose." Carey fumed. "You set this up."

Nickson stepped forward to intervene but stopped at a threatening growl. He paused, not entirely sure the growl had come from the dog. He stepped left and a palm was flat against his chest, pushing him back. He glanced up, met Brock's steely stare.

Jason shrugged. "What? You thought I'd make it easy for you to _try_ and take one of my men?" He moved forward at a glare from Eric, reached around Nickson, put a hand on Clay's foot, gave it a shake. "Clay, that's enough." He said softly.

"Our team." Ray put in.

"We did warn you." Trent couldn't help but add.

"You call that an order?" Carey exclaimed. "Give him an order and make him obey!"

"He doesn't respond well to what he perceives as a threat." Blackburn said calmly. "He's asleep in his own bed and someone he doesn't know comes slapping him awake, how do you expect him to react?"

Confused and befuddled, Clay responded to the familiar, warm grip on his ankle, relaxed his knees, let his feet uncross and fall. He let Rally sit up, but had to be pulled off and away from him. He didn't resist Jason's two-arm hug from behind that lifted him first off his knees, then put him on his feet and pushed him back to sit on his bunk.

Rally got to his feet, massaged his throat. "We should settle this the old way." He croaked directly to Jason, face beginning to loose its tomato color. "Damn." If this man his superiors wanted was this strong and fast, sick and sore in bed, he didn't want to anger him when he was hale and hearty. "Christ, I'm gonna bruise."

"Bare-knuckle brawl?" Jason challenged. "Who's your best fighter?"

"Mine against yours?" Rally stared him down. He was thinking after this little display, that Spenser was Bravo's best fighter and he was busy sorting through his team to decide who would fare best against him.

"Against me." Jason taunted. "Sure, our best brawler is Quinn, but I can hold my own."

Rally blinked. Spenser wasn't their best fighter? He hadn't expected that. And he was thrown that Hayes was eager to fight. Rally sure as hell didn't engage in a fist-fight over anyone on his team. No, he assigned that duty to the man best suited for the fight.

"There will be no brawl." Conklin said firmly. Kneil and Carey nodded their agreement. Nickson growled, met Ray's flat stare, who wearing a tank-top, shamelessly flexed with a smirk. McCall and Blackburn stared straight ahead. "Now then, Special Warfare operator Clay Spenser…."

Clay sat on his bunk, feet on the floor, the blanket no one had seen him pick up, bunched across his lap. He tangled one hand in his hair, swallowed hard as he breathed through some fuzzy clouds. Strangling Rally had made his shoulder flare up in protest, and wow, he fought to keep his stomach from showing everyone more of the nasty tea Trent had forced him to drink.

Every muscle quivered, every joint ached, his head throbbed and still, he fought to gain some kind of control. Over something, anything.

The room was crowded with people he didn't know. He was supposed to do something, but he didn't remember what. He sighed, struggled to think, everyone was expecting him to do something, so he raised his head and did what Brock had told him to do: focused on Blackburn and said only yes or no.

The trio began by ordering silence in the room and asking Clay simple questions. Once he figured out who he was responding to spoke to him via a tablet screen, answered them appropriately: name, rank, home base, chain of command, his team mates, date of birth, home address, where he was, how he'd gotten there, who he'd arrived with, did he know the date, time, country he was in.

Bit by bit, Trent was able to breathe again. This was the Clay who could fight though anything if one of his brothers was at risk and in danger. Only this time it was himself, and he likely remained unaware of that.

Little by little, Ray relaxed, muscles going limp after the need to intervene between Clay and Rally passed. This was the Clay who would do anything for his team.

Finger by finger, Brock uncurled his fingers from tight firsts. This was the kid, who, even when you didn't think you were getting through, understood exactly what you were saying when it mattered. The kid who'd been told to fight for his team and annoy everyone else.

Inch by inch, Sonny got his feet back under the blankets, relaxed against the plethora of pillows piled behind him. This was the Clay he knew; stubborn, steady, serious. No need to go haring off to the kid's rescue. He glared at his nurse. How come whenever the kid was in the hospital, he got smiles and coos and affectionate pats while they offered him cherry flavored ice chips and Sonny got – Nurse Ratched, who would likely tackle him to the ground and wrestle him into submission, should he attempt to leave? His ice chips tasted like plastic. Ugh. So not fair.

"You've been sick in bed, in your quarters, all day?" Conklin led the questioning when the trio, satisfied Clay was competent to stand trial, turned the proceedings over to him.

_Trial, mouthed Ray to Jason, the hell?_

"Yup." Clay yawned. After the trio's questions, he was finally showing signs of waking up and becoming coherent.

Trent smirked, well aware of how Clay being confronted by strangers in his own quarters worked to Bravo's advantage. There was no better way to make Clay react then to have him think someone on his team was in trouble.

"Did you get up? Leave your quarters? Go anywhere else?"

"Showers, the gym." He'd been told to keep his answers to yes or no. If that wasn't possible, keep it short and simple.

"Did you go on base to get something to eat?" No one had reported seeing Spenser anywhere on base, not the MP's, the cooks in the mess tent, not even one soldier stationed there.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I..." He glanced at Eric, who winked. "Was confined to Bravo's barracks."

"By who?"

"Bravo One."

"Why?"

"Doc said..."

And Carey pounced. "You were remanded to quarters while your team was on a mission? They left you, in your team's Doc's words, alone, ill and injured and you went all day without anything to eat?"

Clay glared, lip curling in disgust. "The rec room in our barracks has a fridge, microwave and toaster. They left me soup and bread, so no, I didn't go 'all day without anything to eat'." He mimicked sarcastically. "And I wasn't alone, Davis, Doc and Stewie were on base."

Jason's lips twitched as he fought a grin. There. That. That right there. That arrogance. That attitude. That snark. That tone. That sneer. That shrug. That roll of the eyes. That 'I'll blow you off' look. That was who Jason had drafted onto his team. Oh hell no, no one was going to take this kid away from him.

Nickson exchanged a look with Kneil, who raised a brow at Clay's tone. Oh, Bravo had their stories lined up. Just…how the hell had they pulled it off? They matched to a fucking T.

"Are you aware of the actions of your Lt. Commander? The actions he took to retrieve Bravo from the field before Five could set out to lend assistance?"

"Yes."

"Why would he do that? Not wait to go with experienced backup?"

"Bravo had missed their last three check-ins, Davis couldn't raise them on comm's, Randy didn't have eyes on them." Clay spat irritably. "Blackburn was told Five would be up to three hours before heading out." He scowled at Rally. "Time matters, every second counts."

Eric caught Jason's eye. Wow!

"Can Eric Blackburn make that shot?" Conklin waited.

Clay stumbled, unprepared for such a question, though, really, he shouldn't have been. "He'd be a piss-poor Commander if he couldn't."

Not an answer, Rally thought, an insult and an excellent diversion, 'cause it worked to piss off both Nickson and Carey. Rally had never seen Five's Lt. Commander venture into the field for any reason. Had no idea how well the man could shoot or what his capabilities in the field were.

"Even from such an angle?" Conklin waited. "At that distance?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there. He had a Reming…"

"How would you know what kind of sniper rifle he had?"

Clay narrowed his eyes, glared. He wanted to rub his forehead, thought about it, didn't.

"I sent him with the rifle Ray would want." He decided to say finally.

"You sent?"

"I helped Davis prepare him. I wasn't allowed to go with him." He looked directly at Eric who nodded, gave him a thumbs-up. He blew his breath out. Right, yes or no answers as often as possible. "I'm a sniper, Blackburn isn't."

Discussion went on all around him. Voices raised, argued, came from computer screens. Moods were tense. Bodies shifted. Bickering commenced.

"Hey," Trent was beside him. "Drink something." He held out a bottle. "Put your arm back in the sling."

Across the room, as best as he could from a cellphone screen, Sonny glared and glowered and watched with Doc and Stewie as Trent manhandled Clay's arm back into the sling. He vowed death to Trent when the kid flinched away from the offered plastic bottle. He growled. What the hell had Trent been making the kid drink, he'd pull away and refuse it? When he got his hands on their blasted medic, he was going to wring his neck!

"Just water." Trent popped the tab on the bottle and Clay took it. "Doing okay?" He found the ice pack, it was still cold, so he slapped it on Clay's shoulder. "Keep it there."

No, he wasn't doing okay. He was dizzy, he fought not to fall left, he wanted to lie down and he didn't understand who all these people were or why they were in his room.

"And your shoulder was hurt during a training mishap on your home base in Virg…"

"When I was dropped." Clay corrected, fisting the blanket in the fingers of his left hand so his leg wouldn't bounce. He raised his hand, squeezed the bottle to spray water in his mouth, still half convinced it would taste like tea or ginger. Nope, just nice, cold water. He rolled the bottle across his forehead. God, that felt so good.

"Virginia with another team within your plat…did you say dropped?"

"I did." Clay drawled disdainfully, all dizziness gone. That whole training episode still pissed him off. He put the pop-up tab to his mouth, drank greedily.

"You weren't dropped." Carey growled. "No one dropped anyone."

"Do you realize what you are insinuating here?" Stunned, Conklin paused.

"I'm flat out stating it." Clay countered, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Just haven't been able to prove it."

"Can you explain those scratches on your face?" Kneil, deciding to move on, asked hastily. "It says in your medical file, when you were given a physical," he paused, looked up. "Aah, yesterday here on base, that you failed," he continued with a smirk. "You bore no bruises, cuts, scrapes, scratches or any other visible injuries."

Clay blinked, caught off guard. Out of the blue, he heard Brock's voice in his head; calm, quiet, steady, reassuring. Recalled and obeyed Brock's previous instructions, slid another sideways glance to Eric who waggled the tip of a finger in the direction of Brock's bunk.

"Playing catch with Cerberus." Obviously, whatever story had been told about his face included the dog.

"Cerberus?"

"Our dog." Clay stated as though he might have to also explain what a dog was. "You know, four legs, fur, tail. Likes to play fetch, tug-of-war."

"You expect me to believe, you acquired those cuts and scrapes throwing a ball to a dog?"

"Obviously you've never played catch with a military trained Belgian Malinois." Clay replied with his customary smirk. "They don't like to let go."

Eric raised a fist to cover his mouth while he coughed, head lowered. He'd told Rally a cockamamie story out at the village about Clay keeping the dog while he'd gone after the team. Had forgotten all about it. Way to go Clay! Woot!

Carey fumed silently. Seemed no one on this fucking team liked to let go. It had been such a simple plan.

1) Cause a minor injury.  
2) Have Spenser medically grounded.  
3) Take him on simple round up and talk mission.  
4) Talk him into a transfer.  
5) Take the mantle of 'best elite assault team' away from Bravo.

Who knew that Five would have run into a brick wall named Jason Hayes or that Blackburn would refuse to let them even speak to Spenser or that Bravo's Commander and Captain would have their backs all the way to involving an admiral. Or that their team doc, logistics specialist and supply clerk would remain faithful and unshakable. Not to mention, Spenser's alleged illness, failed physical, orders home. Then, to learn Spenser had disobeyed those orders, he'd thought his plan had no chance of failure. But no, one obstacle after another, all the way up to everyone risking their careers.

Seriously, this had never occurred to Carey. He'd done this before when he'd wanted a certain man to add to his team. He'd gone after Spenser because of his ability with languages and his age and here the sonofabitch sat, looking like he'd just been woken up – puffy eyed and tousled headed. Not like he'd sat in a tree after running in high heat for over an hour, and shooting at people and blowing up guns.

"Woof!"

"Master Chief Rally, when you arrived, was Bravo's team dog with them?"

"No, sir." Rally ground out through clenched teeth.

"Master Chief Hayes? You didn't take your dog, who you claim is a team mate, with you?" Conklin waited.

"It was a routine, non-violent mission to escort a civilian family from a non-combative village. No threats of explosives had been found by Charlie." Jason answered. The fault was not with his team's intel and he wasn't about to let it be said otherwise. "We were advised that it would be a peaceful mission." He paused, tilted his head, curled a lip in a sneer identical to Clay's. "And it was daytime and hot."

"The hell does that mean?" Carey demanded.

"We commonly only take him into the field in hot climates at night, when there is no sun."

"It's a dog!" Rally sneered.

Cerberus lifted his head from where he appeared asleep on the foot of Brock's bed and his hackles went up.

"WOOF!"

Not for the first time, Carey wondered why Hayes had chosen the men he had on his team. If the situation was different, he'd love to have a drink with Bravo's chief, pick his brain, feel him out. Rumors about Bravo ran rampant, but actual facts? Well now, they were hard to come across and very little truth had ever been applied to the many rumors and heresay.

Just how well trained was the dog? And how much of an advantage did having one give a team? Reynolds was the dog handler...did he also train it?

Nickson, who had so far remained fairly silent, spoke up. "Your eyes are red and swollen, watery. Your hair is tangled. You have bruises on your neck."

"Got a mirror?" Clay shot back. "Show me you don't have a bruise somewhere."

"Beg your pardon?"

"I was woken up in my own bed, I don't know how I look." Clay snarked. "Bed head and puffy eyes, sure. Nothing a shower won't fix."

"You have answer for everything, don't you? All of you." Carey seethed. "You think, you all think, that..."

"So, we done here?" McCall cut in, Clay's appearance due to an allergy was something he didn't want Five pursuing further. There was no way to explain the sudden symptoms of an allergy, regardless what it was to, after the physical failed to note any. "We should let Spenser go back to bed."

"We are not." Kneil snapped. "I have heard nothing to….."

"I don't want a transfer to your team." Clay pushed to his feet. "I'm not going anywhere and nothing you say or do will change that."

"You don't know…." began Carey.

"I'm assigned to a team and unless they want me gone or I choose to leave the Navy when my enlistment is up there is nothing you can do to force me to leave Bravo." He stood still though Bravo knew he fought to maintain his balance. "I'd never request a transfer."

"No one has ever refused a transfer to Five." Kneil sputtered. "We have the best team assembled. We have technology and the latest equipment and…"

All four men of Bravo lined up against the door gave a collective snort. Five had the latest technology and equipment? Oh, Bravo begged to differ.

"Captain Kneil, I have heard and seen nothing to warrant your allegations." Admiral Frey said. "You have provided no proof Bravo Six violated team rules or disobeyed direct orders. No one saw him leave or return to base. There is no evidence of a sniper perch. You have nothing." He cleared his throat, addressed the three men on the committee. "Gentlemen, are we agreed? Blackburn was alone."

"We are. We see no grounds for any further proceedings. These allegations, this complaint, this case, is dismissed and closed."

"I want him." Carey hissed.

"You can't have him." Jason countered.

"I intend to get him."

"Not while I still breathe." Jason seethed.

"What he said." Ray echoed.

"You're done here." Frey said from the tablet screen. "I think it is time you vacate Bravo's barracks."

"You can leave on your own," Eric said calmly. "Or Bravo can throw you out."

After a bit more grumbling, another threat or two, a warning that 'this wasn't over', McCall shepherded Five and Conklin from the room, slammed the door shut.

"Woo-Hoo!"

"Now that's what I'm talking about Spenser." Ray crowed. "Well done! Well done!"

Celebrations began. Ray danced. Trent broke out a bottle of scotch. Brock high-fived Davis. Blackburn exchanged kisses with Sonny on the screen. Jason opened a package of disposable cups. Clay began to shake, swayed. His knees buckled and he went down in Jason's arms.

"I've gotcha." Jason said softly, dropped the plastic cups to catch him. He let Clay go down on his knees, held the kid against him. Clay went limp, sagged against his boss, turned his head, rubbed his cheek against Jason's belt buckle. "The hell?"

"He itches." Trent set down the bottle, headed over. "Antihistamine shot is wearing off."

"Give him another." Sonny ordered from Blackburn's hand. "Do it Trent. Do it now."

"I will Sonny. Back the fuck off." Trent replied with an impatient huff. "Christ, gimme a minute, you think I just carry syringes full of medication in my pocket?"

"Yes!" Chorused everyone in the room.

Four men easily took hold, lifted, turned and laid Clay down on his bunk. Davis shook the blanket out, spread it over him, gave it to the feminine impulse of smoothing his hair, an action, effort meant to soothe someone. She simply didn't care what the guys thought.

No one called her on it.

"He left base, didn't he?" Frey said from the tablet screen. "He did it. Holy Christ, he did it." He'd kept an eye on Spenser throughout the entire conversation. "How'd you pull this off?" He'd suspected as much, but hadn't believed it.

"Don't know what you're talking about sir." McCall replied calmly.

"Five is right. He sat in a tree for hours, made those shots. He went with Blackburn, he did everything Five said he did."

"Been a long day sir." Harrington quipped from the other tablet. "Randy is good, but these lines could have ears."

"What difference does it make?" Ray asked.

"He was never there." Brock said, amused. That description was their team motto - we were never there.

"He disobeyed medical orders to return home and went after his team with Blackburn."

"It's late." McCall said. "Perhaps we should let the team get to bed and I'll be on the next flight home to join you and Captain Harrington for a shrimp dinner."

Frey displayed what might have been a smile. "You're buying," and he winked off the screen.

"It over?" Clay asked, sat up, resisted the many hands that tried to push him back down. "I do okay?"

"You did great, get some sleep." Eric told him.

"Hey now, there corn-husker Jim-Bob." Sonny piped up, waved when he was turned to see Clay. "Right proud of you'n'all but kid, you had us worried."

Clay wanted to rub his eyes, push his hair off his forehead, itch his cheek, scratch his beard, but he had one working hand and it was caught and held and the grip was firm, comforting, so he let his hand be held, did nothing.

"Stewie said..." He swallowed. "You were fighting, said not my fault, but was over me." He let himself be pushed flat onto the mattress, head amongst the pillows. "He said..." Now he looked for Trent, gazed at him with wide eyes. "You, uh, got in the shower with me, gave me a bath." He shuddered, still didn't remember it, but the images he could come up with weren't ones he wanted to share. "Figured, you could do that, least I could do was answer a few questions."

Stewart Hart just became Bravo's new, permanent, favorite supply clerk.

"Wanna wash off all this shit you rubbed all over me." Now he looked at Jason. "Gross."

"You want a shower?" Ray asked incredulously. "Now?"

"By...myself." He muttered sleepily. "I itch."

"Just a rash," he was told and he was asleep.

Sure, now it was just a rash. Couple hours ago, it was the reason Bravo feared losing their kid.

"Is this over?" Brock asked, fondling Cerb's ears. "Is there anything else they can do? No one's gonna come take him away, right?"

"They can submit a formal request, asking Spenser if he wants a transfer." McCall said. "Jason can refuse it until Clay's current enlistment is up, but yes, it's over and no, no one can take him away from us."

"And this can't happen again?" Brock pushed. "I can't go through this again. Just when we think there's no other possible way we can lose him, we're proven wrong."

"Five's days of forcing transfers are over." Harrington promised. "Hope Spenser feels better soon." And he winked out.

"Can I come over now?" Sonny asked.

"NO!" Everyone chorused.

***000***

Rally approached Jason in the mess tent with two mugs of coffee. He stood next to the table, waited for Jason to either invite him to sit or tell him to fuck off.

"Black?" Jason asked without looking up.

"Bit of milk." Rally took that as an invitation to sit down. "He went with Blackburn." He put the mugs down, sat, waited.

"Sugar?" Jason picked the canister up from the middle of the table.

Rally shook his head. "How'd you do it?"

"Trent." Jason replied. "You're not going to get him."

"I know." Rally acknowledged. "I don't approve of Carey's actions."

"But you lead his team."

"I'd be happy to have Spenser."

Silence.

"Why?" Rally asked.

"We're a team."

"Team's change all the time. Guys leave, die, teams get new ones."

"He's ours."

Rally was quiet. Spenser was young, younger than everyone else on Bravo, soon, for whatever reason, the team would change.

"You're training him to take over for you." Rally said finally. "Everyone's heard about you."

Jason finally made eye contact. "No one comes after what's mine."

()()()

"Christ, I was like, a teenager when I saw the title to that song." Clay said, without moving. Arm out of the sling, he was sprawled on his stomach, twisted in the fleece blanket, hands curled close to his cheek. "Always sang 'there's a bathroom on the right' in the car with my dad."

He didn't need to see who he was talking to. Hearing CCR's Bad Moon Rising told him Jason was in the room somewhere.

"You do know, everything you do, I find out about, right?" Came Jason's voice from somewhere. He winced at the comparison to Clay's old man! He paused, calculated the age difference, well, yeah, puberty wise, it was possible, but unless he'd wanted to make his mom one of the world's youngest grandma's, he was not old enough to be Clay's father!

"What?"

"Your enlistment?" Jason brought up.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Damn right, you're not."

"You flying out to Malaysia?"

"In the morning."

"I'm going home?"

"Yup, with Doc and Davis."

"Sonny okay?"

Jason laughed. "He's fine."

"He going with you?"

"Yup."

Clay was quiet, drowsy and comfortable. Doc, no longer hesitant about giving him pain meds and relief from the allergy, hadn't been stingy with the medication, didn't care any more about any reaction he might throw.

"Hey boss?" He slurred, almost asleep again.

"Yeah kid?"

"Thanks."

"Get some sleep."

***END***

Okay, I'm ending this now, before I run amuck! HeeHee!


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